On The Edges Of Time

On the Edges
of Time

Rathindranath Tagore

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Rathindranath Tagore

1888-1961

ON THE EDGES
OF TIME

RATHINDRANATH TAGORE

Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time
like dew on the tip of a leaf.

The Gardener, xlv

V!SV*-»HAKATI

622

U*R ART

VISVA-BHARATI

CALCUTTA

Published June 1958

Second Edition : Visva-Bharati : June 1981

Published by Sri Jagadindra Bhowmick
Visva-Bharati Publishing Department
6 Acharya Jagadish Bose Road, Calcutta 17

Printed by Kali Charan Pal
Nabajiban Press
66 Grey Street, Calcutta 6

To the memory of

YUSUF MEHERALLY
#

but for whose encouragement and insistence
this book would never have been completed or published

CONTENTS

PAGE

A Boy is Born i

The Tagores 2

Prince Dwarkanath 3

Our House at Jorasanko 5

My Uncles 6

A Dinner Party 8

Disconnected Memories 9

Anniversary of Brahmo Samaj 13

Kham-Kheyali Sabha 14

Bengal. Provincial Conference 16

Congress Session 1896 18

At Shelidah 19

Visitors at Shelidah 23

Father’s Literary Output 27

His Managerial Work 28

A Business Venture 29

A Dramatic Episode 30

The Boat Padma 33

A Trip to the Himalayas 38

Early Days at Santiniketan 41

A Summer Vacation at Santiniketan 47

A Midsummer Night’s Dream 51

The Shadow of Death 52

The Swadeshi Movement 57

Outward Bound 65

My First Glimpse of the U.S.A. 67

Cosmopolitan Club 69

Homeward Bound 71

Shelidah Again 73

Vichitra and the Art Movement in Bengal 76

Dramas and Play-acting 82

Pareshnath 92

Giridih 94

With Father in London 97

In the U.S.A. 107

PAGE

Father’s Foreign Tours

109

A Travel Diary

112

A Still-born Trip to Norway

120

Paris Diary

121

With Father on the Continent

126

Visit to Italy

136

Frontiers in Europe

140

A Swiss Peasant

141

Potisar

144

Father as I Knew Him

147

The Tagore Family Trees

163

Index

164

The twelve illustrations which appear at the head of
pages 1, 19, 33, 38, 41, 57, 65, 76, 92, 97, 144, 147
were drawn by Prasanta Roy. The photograph of
Rathindranath published in this book is in the collec-
tion of Rabindra-Bhavana, Santiniketan.

PREFACE

I am told these reminiscences may be of some help
to those who are interested in the life and works
of my father. My memory chooses to highlight cer-
tain events without going into factual details or
following a chronological sequence, but it is possible
that from the somewhat disconnected anecdotes
penned during leisure hours at different times and
put together in these pages, the reader may obtain
glimpses of some aspects of my father’s personality
not dealt with by his biographers.

I shall remain ever grateful to Krishna Kripalani.
Indira Devi Chaudhuram, Nirmal Chandra Chatterji,
Amal. Home and especially to Kshitis Roy for their
ungrudging help in various ways in the preparation
of this book. Thanks are also due to the Visva-
Bharati for permission to use certain portions that
have appeared in the pages of the Visva-Bliarati
Quarterly.

[ 1958 ]

Rathindranath Tagore

ON THE EDGES
OF TIME

A Boy is Born

In my uncle Satyendranath’s house, where the grown-up
members of the family gathered almost every evening, there used
to lie a bound volume of blank pages in which w?re jotted down
conundrums, witty remarks, nonsense rhymes, as also words of
wisdom that occurred to the minds of those who happened to
be present. The book was called the Pari bank Khata — the
Family Notebook. While looking through its pages I came
across pencilled notes which could not fail to interest me. Even
at the risk of breaking the solemn rule that the contents of the
book were not to be published I am quoting the words. May
my ancestors forgive me !

Uncle Rabi’s Baby — A forecast.

Uncle’s baby will be a fortunate boy, not a girl.

He will not be as laughter-loving as uncle, but
comparatively serious. He will not go about doing
social work but will prefer to live apart in solitude
and devote himself to religious prayer.

Park Street House

November 1888 Hitendranath Tagore

Hit-da, the subject of your prophecy has now become visible.
One must admit that he is serious by nature. But I don’t think
the baby will become a forest sage instead of a social creature.
And because he is serious it does not follow that he won’t laugh.
Uncle Rabi’s nature is also fundamentally serious if you Come
to think of it. There is a difference between seriousness and
moroseness.

March 1890

Balendranath Tagore

2

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

How far the above prophecies made by my cousins have
come,, true is not for me to say, but I must disclaim the credit
of having spent my days in prayer and meditation.

To be born in a family where more than a hundred members
lived under one roof is a matter of no great significance in our
country. Moreover, I happened to be the son of the youngest
of the brothers, my father being the last surviving son of my
grandfather. Our Jorasanko house had seen so many grandsons
born before my appearance on the scene that I suppose the
event was not considered worth celebrating. Nevertheless my
mother must have felt some pride and satisfaction in having
given birth to her first male child, although he did not promise
to be as fair and good-looking as her first-born. My sister was
indeed a very pretty child and therefore much petted by the
whole family. My life thus started with a handicap which gave
me a complex that has been difficult to overcome even at a
mature age. Moreover, T remained the youngest of the cousins.
Even as a child I felt my inferior position and this made me
more and more of a retiring and unsociable disposition as T
grew up. In a joint family the children have many advantages,
but there is also the danger of competition beginning at too
early an age and this is to the disadvantage of those who are
weak and suffer under some handicap.

The Tagores

The Tagores belong to the Bandyopadhyaya group of Bengali
Brahmins. The genealogy can be traced back to Daksha, one
of the five Brahmins who were imported sometime in the 8th
century from Kanauj to help in reviving orthodox Hinduism
in Buddhist-ridden Bengal. The descendants of this Brahmin
moved from one place to another until one Panchanan in 1690
settled down at Govindapur near Calcutta. The opportunities
of making money in this flourishing mercantile town, the
stronghold of the East India Company, finally attracted the
family to Calcutta in the latter part of the eighteenth century
and they built their homes at Pathuriaghata and Jorasanko.

There is a story that, while the family was living at a place
near Khulna and serving the Moslem governor there, two of
the brothers lost their caste in a peculiar manner. It happened

PRINCE DWARKANATH

3

this way. The brother Kamadev one day during the fast of
Roza noticed that a courtier of the Governor was smelling a
lemon. Jestingly Kamadev told him that he had broken his
fast because, according to the Sastras , smelling is half-eating.
The courtier did not argue with him but repeated the words to
the Governor. A few days later the members of the Thakur
family (the name of Tagore had not come into use at that
time) along with other Hindus were invited by the Governor
to attend a musical entertainment. In the adjoining room a
feast consisting of meat dishes was being prepared. The savoury
smell penetrated to the entertainment hall. Holding their noses,
the Hindus wanted to leave. The Governor told them that
since by smelling they have partially eaten the dishes they
might as well stay and do full justice to them. Kamadev and
his followers thus lost their caste arid were looked down upon
by orthodox Hindus as Pirali (Pir-Ali) Brahmins.

Not only were the ancestors of the Tagores wanderers in the
province of Bengal moving from one place to another and never
settling down, but latterly they were looked upon as outcasts.
They had to depend upon their own resources and struggle to
win any sort of position in society. They soon found that this
could be done only by accumulation of wealth. These two
factors probably helped to develop the pioneering spirit and
the freedom of mind that could rise above all social and
religious conventions which are the basic characteristics of the
Tagore family. Once they had accumulated wealth and gained
the assurance of comfortable living their spirit went adventur-
ing in other realms and their talents effloresced in many a
direction.

Prince Dwarkanath

My great-grandfather, Dwarkanath Tagore, was a romantic
figure. Contemporary of Rammohan Roy, the Father of the
Renaissance Movement of Bengal, he was closely associated
with him in all his activities and rendered financial help when-
ever required. The East India Company were by this time
firmly established in Bengal and were rapidly building up
their trade. Dwarkanath’s knowledge of English helped him
to take advantage of the conditions prevailing under the

4

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Company’s rule and he was able at quite an early age not only
to amass a fortune but also to gain high offices under the
British. With Rammohan Roy he took a leading part in all
the movements for the promotion of higher education and
social welfare. There was hardly any institution founded during
his life-time that did not owe its existence to the generous
charity of Dwarkanath. He came to be known as Prince
Dwarkanath in recognition of his benefactions. His business
enterprises extended to fields unexplored by Indians in those
days. He had a fleet of cargo boats for trading between India
and England. To improve his business connections and gain
further concessions from the Company, he himself went to
England accompanied by his youngest son, Nagendranath. I
have had occasion to read the diary kept by this grand-uncle
of mine. It describes vividly and in very chaste English the
social life Of the aristocracy of England in the early Victorian
age as seen through the eyes of an Indian. There is also an
interesting description of his adventurous journey across the
country from Bombay to Calcutta at a time when India was
in a very disturbed condition on the eve of the Sepoy Mutiny.

Soon after landing in London Dwarkanath became a
favourite of Queen Victoria and of the court circle. There are
many amusing stories told about his exploits in England and
France some of which I came to know from the letters written
by his valet. While staying in London he was once invited to
a hunting party. The arrangement was that the party would
call at his hotel to pick him up and ride out to the country
where the hunt would take place. When his friends came he
begged to be excused complaining of a rheumatic pain in the
leg which rendered him unfit for riding. After much persua-
sion he was prevailed upon to accompany them, not riding on a
horse but comfortably seated in a carriage. Thus the Londoners
were treated to the amusing spectacle that morning of an Indian
gentleman driving in state escorted by a bodyguard of aristo-
cratic ladies and gentlemen.

In Paris he was once invited by a Countess to her salon,
where he noticed a Kashmir shawl used as a hanging on the
wall. The Countess proudly drew the attention of the Prince
to this decoration. A return invitation followed in due course.
As the Countess and her friends took leave the Prince presented

OUR HOUSE AT JORASANKO 5

each of them with an expensive Kashmir shawl.

It is believed that the important business which took the
Prince to England was - to try to negotiate with the British
government for an izara (permanent lease) of the provinces of
Bengal, Bihar and Orissa in supersession of the East India
Company. He was well received by Queen Victoria. But this
ambitious project of his came to nothing on account of his
sudden death under somewhat mysterious circumstances.

Our House at Jorasanko

Our house has had an interesting history. As I have already
said, my forefathers migrated to Calcutta in the early days of
the East India Company, and, having helped in the erection
of Fort William, made enough money to construct a palatial
building of their own at Jorasanko in the northern quarter of
the town. Other gentry were attracted to this quarter which
gradually became the most fashionable part of the city, with
elegant houses vying with each other. It is a pity that most of
these houses are being crowded out or demolished to make
room for hideous modern mansions. The architecture of that
period with high columned facades and a series of interior
courtyards was not only dignified but most suited to the tropi-
cal climate.

After the death of the Prince, my grandfather, Maharshi
Devendranath Tagore, became the head of the family. Although
for many years he lived away from the family residence in a
separate house in Park Street, his commanding personality knit
the numerous members of the family into a homogeneous body.
They were also deeply influenced by his spiritual life. My second
uncle Satyendranath, as an I.C.S. officer in the Bombay Presi-
dency, had necessarily to live away from the family and on
retirement chose to settle down at Ballygunge.

At Jorasanko lived the direct descendants of the Maharshi
at No. 6, Dwarkanath Tagore Lane. It was a huge rambling
house spread over an acre of ground with wide verandahs and
large halls around the outer courtyard and a series of dark and
dingy corridors and staircases and rooms, where no sunlight
ever penetrated, which gave us the creeps whenever as children
we had to pass through them. At No. 5, the handsome residence

6

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

opposite to ours, livecj my three artist cousins Gaganendra,
Samarendra and Abanindra.

My Uncles

Our boyhood days were divided between these different
surroundings. Each had its own characteristic contribution to
make on our impressionable minds. At the Park Street house
leaders of the Brahmo Samaj and ardent devotees of other
religious movements from every province of India were cons-
tantly to be found come to pay their respects to the Maharshi
or to hold discourses on problems of philosophy and religion
with him. With what awe we went into the room to take the
dust of his feet and to be blest in return ! Coming down the
stairs we would with no less awe peep into the room where
sat my eldest uncle Dwijendranath. But very often this awe
would turn into amusement on hearing peals of loud laughter
bursting from the doors of his room and shaking the whole
house. His life was devoted exclusively to philosophical studies
among which the most important of his contributions was a
comparative study of the philosophy of Kant and the Vedanta.
In worldly affairs he was like a child — quite unlike the
Maharshi. In his early days he had written in his inimitable
style an allegorical poem which has remained a classic in Bengali
literature. But poetry was not his metier — his mind dwelt in
the abstract region of the intellect. He used to work from early
morning till late at night. When tired he had three alternative
means of recreation — indulging in the solution of mathemati-
cal problems, constructing boxes with folded paper, or re-read-
ing Robinson Crusoe or some novel by Sir Walter Scott. Many
amusing stories were told of this naive philosopher, whose
Tolstoy-like figure could be seen every morning riding on a tri-
cycle through the crowded and fashionable Park Street, serenely
indifferent to the effect he created. To avoid the trouble of but-
toning up he would always wear two coats, one in the normal
manner and the other back to front. One day, unable to find
any audience to hear an erudite lecture he had written for a
learned gathering, he got an illiterate maid-servant to sit before
him and listen to the long discourse on The Search after
Truth’ ! Many of his friends and admirers would often patiently

MY UNCLES

7

sit with him waiting with an empty stomach for lunch or dinner
to which they had been invited but which was never served for
the simple reason that he had forgotten to order it. But perhaps
most of them did not mind it, since they got more soul-satisfy-
ing food from Uncle Dwijendranath’s brilliant talks interspersed
with many a humorous anecdote and followed inevitably by
peals of laughter. His was a rare personality, the product of an
age which is perhaps lost for ever.

The world in which my second uncle Satyendranath’s family
lived, almost next door to that of my grandfather the Maharshi
and my eldest uncle Dwijendranath, was of a quite different
flavour. Aunt Jnanadanandini presided over the Inga-Banga
Samaj consisting of English-educated Indians who had drifted
away from their orthodox relatives and friends and formed a
community of their own, settling down at Ballygunge with the
European quarters of the city in close proximity. This, how-
ever, did not promote social relationship between the two. The
Indian element was isolated both from its compatriots as well
as from its rulers. Theirs was a small world but a very dis-
tinguished one. Although they had adopted the English mode
of living and imbibed English ways of thinking, it need not
be supposed that they were anti-national. As a matter of fact
the national movement of the Congress owes its existence
and support to the intellectuals belonging to this group —
and what a galaxy of intellect and talent ! The doors of
my aunt’s house were open to all members of this community.

The afternoons would start with tennis and tea and end
with supper. I was too much of a child to gain much by con-
tact with the people who frequented the house. My father
owned a carriage drawn by an old piebald mare. Almost every
afternoon we would drive to Park Street. On the return journey
through the lonely streets late at night the rhythmic clatter of
the hooves and the weird effect of light and shadow alternately
cast by the gas lamps would at first cause my sensitive mind
to imagine all sorts of fairy-tales. This, however, was followed
by a deep slumber out of which my mother would shake me
when the carriage turned into the all-too-familiar lane leading
to our house.

8

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

A Dinner Party

Among the many persons who frequented my aunt’s drawing-
room may be mentioned the names of Taraknath Palit, S. P.
Sinha, W. C. Bonnerjee, Krishna Govinda Gupta, Bihari Lar
Gupta, Ashutosh Chaudhuri and his brothers, Manmohan
Ghose, Lalmohan Ghose and Rashbehari Ghose. They were
certainly the foremost leaders of intellectual Bengal towards
the end of the last century. Taraknath will be remembered with
gratitude in Bengal, along with Rashbehari, as the philanthro-
pist who left all his fortune, earned during a brilliant career
at the Bar of the High Court of Calcutta, for the promotion of
scientific studies. The Indian National Congress must also
have freely drawn from his largesse during his life-time. Father
was attracted to Taraknath’s son, Loken Palit who, after his
education in Oxford, came back from England as an I.C.S.
officer. Loken Palit had a genuine love for literature and espe-
cially for poetry. Father found in him a sincere admirer of his
writings, one on whose critical judgment he could rely. The
letters exchanged between Father and Loken Palit, some of
which have been published, show the deep attachment between
them.

Besides Taraknath, most of the other persons I have men-
tioned were top-rank lawyers. In those days there were very
few openings for the educated young men — the most intelli-
gent among them were drawn to the legal profession. They
provided leadership to the political movement and laid the
foundation of the Indian National Congress. But Father had
little faith in their politics. He realized the futility of holding
meetings* and passing pious resolutions — the only programme
the Congress had in its early years. After a session of the
Congress held in Calcutta, Taraknath gave a dinner at his house
to the political leaders assembled on the occasion. It was to be
more or less a self-congratulatory party. Father, much to his
surprise, was amongst those invited. He was loth to go to an
English dinner in honour of the leaders of the Indian National
Congress. Taraknath was, however, insistent as he wished
Father to entertain the guests with a few songs. Father’s resent-
ment found voice in the words of the song he composed :

DISCONNECTED MEMORIES

9

A may bolona gahite bolond...

Do not ask me to sing, I pray you
ask me not.

Is this a mere matter of laugh and play,
of merry making together
and of falsehood and deceptions ?

He had hardly any time to set it to music. This he did while
driving to Palit’s house.

The appearance of Father dressed in dhoti and chaddar in
the midst of the anglicised diners was in itself a protest. When,
on the top of this, he poured out in the song his pent-up sorrow
and resentment, there was an embarrassing hush, after which
the party broke up.

Disconnected Memories

Our stay in Calcutta did not last very long. My grandfather
handed over the management of the family estate to my father
when I was not yet eight years of age. Why he should have
chosen his youngest son and one who was moreover a poet, is
difficult to understand. The selection naturally aroused jealou-
sies, especially because it carried an extra allowance. My father
used to draw a monthly allowance of two hundred rupees from
my grandfather as did the others who had families to maintain.
To this was now added another hundred. How generous it
seemed in those days but how ridiculous according to present
standards ! A few disconnected memories of our life at Jora-
sanko before we left for Shelidah, the headquarters of our
estates, still linger in some comer of my mind but these are
connected more with Mother than with Father.

Father had his own study quite apart from the rooms which
we occupied, and was either busy writing or meeting literary
friends there. Once a week he would send for me and my sister
and ask us to bring the clock before him. This particular clock
was a precious heirloom. It was made to order for my great-
grandfather, Prince Dwarkanath, by the famous McCabe. It
took some years to finish, by which time the Prince had died.
It took another year and a good deal of perseverance on the
part of the clock-maker to find out the address of my grand-

10

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

father and to have it sent to him. If he had been less honest
he need not have done so, since the Prince had paid fully in
advance and nobody except the Prince knew about it. The
Maharshi made a gift of it to Father, who would never allow
anybody else to touch it. There was quite a ceremony when the
clock needed winding and my sister and I felt proud to be in-
vited on these occasions.

Amongst the many young poets and aspirants for literary
fame who used to frequent Father’s study was Chittaranjan Das.
He had then just joined the Calcutta High Court Bar after
returning from England. Politics had no attraction for him
then ; he wanted to be a poet. He would come directly from
the court after long hours of waiting for a brief in the Bar
Library and would run up the stairs two steps at a time shout-
ing in his loud voice, ‘Auntie, Auntie, where is my meat
curry ; I am famished, get it ready please.’ He was a good
eater, and my mother loved to feed him. He would always
bring a note-book in his pocket and read out his latest effu-
sions in verse. Father would sometimes throw cold water on
his efforts but more often encouraged him by suggesting altera-
tions.

Being of a sweet and affectionate nature, my mother was
liked by all the members of the family. They came to her to
be entertained and she shared in their happiness. They would
also come to her when they were in any difficulty, and she
shared their sorrows too. She bestowed her affection equally
on everybody, but she had a specially soft comer for my
cousin Balendra. He would not only read out to her his own
writings but also the English and Sanskrit classics. Although
my mother had had hardly any regular school education, she
got quite familiar in this way with the best of Western and
Eastern literature and even acquired a fair knowledge of the
English and Sanskrit languages.

Cousin Balendra was also a favourite of Father’s. Observing
his artistic and literary tendencies. Father took him under his
care and started to train him from an early age. To give them
opportunities to develop their talents, Balendra and Sudhindra,
another cousin with a literary bent of mind, were encouraged
to contribute to the juvenile magazine called Balak. This
magazine was short-lived, but, during the two years of its

DISCONNECTED MEMORIES

11

existence, it certainly set a high standard of production. It is
still considered not only a pioneer in juvenile journalism but
unique in its kind. Later on both of these cousins were
made to complete their apprenticeship by taking part in the
editing of the Sadhana, a high-class literary journal founded by
Father, and also by contributing to 1 3 karat i, started by my eldest
uncle Dwijendranath.

I remember how Baludada — that is how I called Balendra-
nath — would bring the essays which he had been enjoined to
write and wait for Father’s verdict on them. More often than
not Father would ask him to rewrite them explaining to him
how the subject-matter should be treated. When this had been
done. Father would begin making corrections after discussing
with him the construction of each sentence and the selection
of more appropriate words wherever needed. Hardly any writing
would be considered fit for the press until it had been rewritten
four or five times. Baludada ungrudgingly submitted to this
intensive and exacting course of training. As a result, he deve-
loped a style characterized by a lucid and logical treatment of
the subject expressed in chaste diction. In his essays not a
single sentence is redundant — not a single word can be replaced
by a happier substitute. Baludada died young — one of the first
victims in Bengal of Hindu-Moslem communal tension — while
trying to defend his mother when the carriage in which they
were driving was attacked. His death was due to the after-effects
of a wound he received in the head. He left only one or two
books of poems and a volume of prose, but they have a distinc-
tive place in Bengali literature.

There is a flat terrace on the roof of the first floor of our
house ; it is so large that twoi tennis courts could easily be
accommodated on it. This roof functioned as the social centre
for the family. It provided a playground for the youngsters
whose boisterous mirth could be heard there all day long. The
elders, especially the women, would gather there towards the
evening and sit upon a carpet made comfortable with bolsters
on the central portion of the roof which was raised like a
platform. In those days tea-drinking had not come into vogue,
but my mother, who acted as the hostess, had various sweets
and cold drinks to serve. The men would drop in later when
it grew dark and the oil lamps had been lit. It would then

12

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

start getting interesting. Invariably there would be music. Our
house was never without it ; at all hours could be heard sing-
ing in some part or other of the house. Not only were most
members of the family accomplished singers with fine voices,
but music was their life and soul. No more congenial atmos-
phere for music could be imagined than this open-air drawing-
room where in summer the gentle south breeze brought
comfort to the body and the moonlight made everything seem
unearthly. Songs of love, songs devotional and those of grief
and sorrow would be sung. There was no lack of good voices,
but the one which my father specially cared to hear was my
cousin Abhi’s. She sang with the abandon and spontaneity of
a bird intoxicated by the warmth of spring. She died very young
and her sweet ringing voice never brought cheer to the house
any more.

Father had discovered outside the family a remarkable voice
in a sister of Chittaranjan Das. My mother made her come
and stay with us. She was adopted as a member of the family
and we called her Amaladidi. During the years she was with
us Father used to compose tunes that would specially suit her
voice. Whenever these songs, such songs as

Chira-sakha he chhero na...

My friend ever, my life-long friend
leave not me alone
You are the only friend to lean upon
in the fearsome wilderness of the world.

Or, Eki akulata bhuvane.,.

What a yearning all the world-over,

what restless stirring in the wind.

which were composed in the nineties, are sung nowadays my
mind flashes back to those evenings on the roof and the strik-
ing figure of Amaladidi singing in her unfaltering soprano voice.
She was not handsome, and her generously built body, of a
height quite unusual in this country, gave her a commanding
appearance. But as 90 on as one heard her sweet voice one for-
got about her rather manly appearance.

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

13

Anniversary of Brahmo Samaj

My grandfather celebrated the anniversary of the Brahmo Samaj
in a grand manner. Preparations for the celebration that took
place on the 11th Magh (about the 24th January) took several
weeks. The house would be in a turmoil. Every talent in the
family had to make some contribution to the programme. My
father would compose the songs to be sung on the occasion.
New songs were written and set to music every year. Rehearsals
would then begin. My cousin Nitindranath had charge of the
decorations as long as he lived. The whole of the outer qua-
drangle had to be repaired, repainted and decorated — but
special attention was given to the courtyard in which the meet-
ing assembled. Each year my cousin invented a new style of
decoration. On one occasion he wanted the pillars to look like
moss-covered trunks of trees. But since moss could not be had
in a place like Calcutta he sent fishermen to drag some ponds
and bring in cartloads of the green slimy stuff so common in
the stagnant pools in Bengal. With the help of this and water
lilies he did indeed make the courtyard look very gay. He was
so pleased with the effect that he sent for his artist cousin
Abanindra. There existed a sort of rivalry between the two.
And Nitindra wanted Abanindra to admit that his much- vaunted
novel scheme of decoration was after all a success. When
Abanindra came he nodded his head in approval but hastily
went back home holding his nose. In his enthusiasm Nitindra-
nath had not realized that the place stank of rotten fish. Nitin-
dranath felt crestfallen but, undaunted, he got my grandfather
to pay for gallons of lavender and eau-de-cologne to drown the
evil smell before the guests arrived.

This anniversary of the Brahmo Samaj, known as Maghotsava
(because it comes in the month of Magh), was a social event
to which the people of Calcutta looked forward with eagerness.
Not only was the music, songs sung by a choir chosen with
meticulous care, exceptionally good but the solemn chanting
of the Vedic mantras and the sermon that followed were
listened to with deep reverence. In the early days the Maharshi
himself sat on the Vedi and gave the sermon. Later on it was
invariably either Satyendranath or my father who delivered it.

As children we were more interested in the flowers, the

14

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

candle lights of the numerous chandeliers that lit the hall and
the corridors and above all the remnants of the feast. Very often
we would have our own celebration the next day before the
decorations and lights were taken down.

Kham-Kheyali Sabha

One of the lasting impressions of these early years was that
of the Kham-Kheyali Sabha. Father and Cousin Balendranath
were the moving spirits behind this queer and informal club.
There was no constitution or any membership fixed by rules.
Friends who fell in with the idea would invite the others by
rotation to a dinner party. The number perhaps never exceeded
twenty, but every kind of talent was represented — there were
poets, writers, actors, musicians and others. The dinners were
elaborate without any attempt at ostentation. The hosts made
it a point to cater for the taste of the artist rather than for
that of the gourmand. Therefore each of the dinner parties
would have unique features which appealed not only to the
palate but to the eye as well. I remember the occasion when
Father had invited the club. The dinner was served on low
tables around a raised platform on which one of my artist
cousins had featured a vivid representation of the landscape
and life of a Bengal village. Craftsmen from Krishnanagar had
been requisitioned to erect miniature thatched cottages and to
model types of Bengali men and women. Food was served on
white marble plates and dishes ordered from Jaipur. The in-
genuity and skill of my mother was taxed to its limit to invent
novel preparations of food. Father’s imagination would run riot
on these occasions and he would suggest all sorts of strange
dishes which had never been attempted before, and Mother had
to rack her brains to achieve the impossible and yet make
them into culinary successes. But the food was not the only
enjoyable part of the programme. After dinner when the guests
had comfortably seated themselves in the drawing-room, the
real feast would begin with abundance of music and readings
from poetry or short stories. One-act plays were often perfor-
med. But apart from such entertainments, what was most en-
joyable was the brilliant and witty conversation that took place.

kham-kheyali sabha 15

That is an art which has almost disappeared in the world of
of today.

When Father sang such songs as

Aji mama mana chahd^»

I long for my life-long friend today,
for that constant companion of mine
who remains by my side day and night
in joy and in sorrow, in life and also in death.

Abanindra with his esraj and Maharaja Jagadindranath of
Natore with the pakhoaj would accompany him. Father’s
voice was at its best during this period, and it was a treat to
hear him sing. Those familiar with his later compositions which
are essentially of a folk-music character would hardly realise
how wonderful it was to hear him sing the Dhrupad in the
classical rag setting accompanied by the pakhoaj. And how
well and with what understanding the Maharaja played ! Father
would sometimes put the Maharaja to the severest test by ask-
ing him to play the pakhoaj while he recited poems from Sonar
Tori or from Manasi . *

Everyone had his own favourite songs, however, and Father
would be requested to sing them again and again. Sir Jagadish
Bose would never tire of listening to

Esho esho phire esho...

Come back, come back my beloved,

Come back to this craving heart
athirst and afire with longing.

Father was writing the short stories of the Galpaguchchha
series at this time. He would go off to Shelidah or to Potisar
for a few days and bring back with him a story. The Kham-
Kheyali group would eagerly wait to hear the latest he had
written. I think the witty plays Bini Paisdr Bhoj and Baikuniher
Khdta were written specially for the Kham-Kheyali Sabha.
The latter was performed one evening at Gaganendranath’s
house with Father as Abinash* Gaganendra as Baikuntha,
Samarendra as Kedar, Abanindra as Tincowrie and Chota
Akshoy Babu as the old servant Ishan. It was rollicking fun
with just that touch of pathos to relieve the humour and give

16

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

it a more abiding substance. Such a combination of consum-
mate actors happened only once again when Dak Ghar ( The
Post Office) was staged many years later at the Vichitra Club.

I can write about such details regarding the life and activities
of grown-up people because, as I have mentioned before, I
was of a timid and retiring nature and therefore did not seek
companionship with children of my own age. I preferred to be
with my elders and especially tagged along after cousins
Balendra and Nitindra. They treated me as their particular
pet and would take me wherever they went. Thus I grew bold
and used to stay with them even when the elders discussed
matters far beyond my understanding. The meetings of the
Kham-Kheyali Club greatly attracted me. I would sneak into
a corner of the room and make myself as inconspicuous as
possible. It was in this way that my education started at a very
early age, and love and respect for the higher things in art and
literature were inculcated in me quite unconsciously.

Besides members of our family, the persons whom I used
to see often at the Club were Jagadish Bose, the Maharaja of
Natore, Akshoy Kumar Choudhury, Chota Akshoy Babu,
Priyanath Sen, Chittaranjan Das, Pramathanath Roy Chaudhuri
of Santosh, Pramatha Chaudhuri (who afterwards wrote under
the pseudonym ‘Birbal’), and some others whom I did not know
at the time. Later on Atul Prasad Sen was introduced. His in-
experienced youth and innocent appearance tempted the others
to play practical jokes on him from the very first day. At that
time he had no other accomplishment than that of being a
briefless barrister. D. L. Roy frequently entertained the party
with humorous songs sung in his inimitable style. The Kham-
Kheyali Sabha came to an abrupt end when Father left Calcutta
and went to live at Shelidah with his family.

Bengal Provincial Conference

It was while we were still children and living at the Jorasanko
house that there occurred the great earthquake of 1897. The
panic created in Calcutta was bad enough since an earthquake
of such intensity had not occurred within living memory, but
It was worse in our house as all the men happened to be absent

BENGAL PROVINCIAL CONFERENCE

17

on that day. The Bengal Provincial Conference was being held
at Natore that year. The Maharaja, who was the host, being a
particular friend of the family, had invited everybody and they
had gone there. Our quarters on the second floor were badly
damaged and we took shelter on the ground floor. For days
there was no news from Natore as all communications had been
cut off. My mother had been injured, and to this was added her
anxiety for Father and others. At last when after a week they
returned, they brought harrowing tales of their experiences at
Natore, where the earth-tremors must have been very much
worse than at Calcutta.

Long afterwards I heard from Father what happened at the
Conference. There is one story worth repeating. In those days
all the meetings of the Congress were conducted in English.
Almost all those who led the national movement had been
educated in England and had exceptional mastery over the
English language. Such men as W. C. Bonnerjee, Pherozeshah
Mehta, G. K. Gokhale, Surendranath Banerjea, Rashbehari
Ghose, Lalmohan Ghose, Anandamohan Bose were first-rate
-orators and their speeches in English were greatly admired.
Father did not mind the speeches being given in English in the
sessions of the Congress, but he wanted that at least in the
Provincial Conferences the language used should be that of the
province. Father, my uncle Satyendranath, the Maharaja of
Natore and a few others had formed a group to move a
resolution to this effect at the Natore Conference. There was
stiff opposition from the leaders. Not one of them could make
a speech in Bengali. Tn the end a compromise was effected
when Father offered to give a running translation in Bengali of
all the speeches made. On the opening day of the conference
Father actually did this. It was a remarkable and most difficult
performance. Before the meeting broke up — the conference
could not meet again owing to the earthquake — W. C.
Bonnerjee twitted Father by saying, ‘Rabi Babu, your Bengali
was wonderful, but do you think that your chashas and bhushas
(meaning peasants and the common people) understood your
mellifluous language better than our English ?’

18

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Congress Session 1896

I have a very vague recollection of the session of the Congress
held in Calcutta in the year 1896. In those days the city did
not have many parks where such public functions could be
held. The sanctity of the Maidan and the Eden Gardens was
jealously guarded by the Government against any pollution from
political demonstrations by the people of the country. So
Beadon Square, which is close to our Jorasanko residence,
was selected as the venue of the Congress. Nowadays the
selection of such a site would be unthinkable — ■ there are so
many other more suitable places in elegant localities — but the
Chitpur Road and Beadon Street crossing where the Congress
was to be held had not yet fallen into disrepute.

Naturally there was great excitement in our house while
preparations went on for the great event. Father took charge
of the programme for music with Saraladidi to help him. For
many years, as long as he kept contact with the public life of
Calcutta, people depended on Father to arrange the music on
all big occasions. Father chose Bankim Chandra’s Vande
Mataram as the opening song. He set music to the words of
the poem and sang it himself, accompanied on the organ by
Saraladidi. Father’s voice had such carrying capacity that it
could be heard from the farthest comer of the huge assembly
and held the audience under a spell. Such an achievement must
seem strange and impossible in these days of ‘mikes’ and loud
speakers which have brought about a gradual deterioration in
the volume of the voice. This undoubtedly was the first occasion
when Vande Mataram was sung at a public gathering. The
effect was so overpowering that the song immediately became
recognized as the national song. I believe at no subsequent
meeting of the Congress has Vande Mataram been left out..
The slogan came into use at a much later date.

At Shelidah

Shelidah lies on the northernmost border of Nadia, being
separated from Pabna by the river Padma, which forms the
natural boundary between the two districts. But after reaching
the alluvial plains of Bengal, the Padma is no longer the dainty
and well-mannered river that flows by the sacred cities of
Allahabad and Banaras. It has gathered volume during its long
journey and changed into a seething mass of muddy water,
vast in extent and unruly in character. In spite of its size it
has acquired a capricious nature, playing hide-and-seek with
the innumerable villages along its banks. Just when some of
those villages begin to feel secure and happy on receiving her
caresses, she wantonly abandons them to distribute her favours
on others miles away.

In those days Shelidah was snugly ensconced between the
Padma and the Gorai, and this advantageous position gave the
place for many years an added importance as a river-port.
Boats of all descriptions called there to unload or replenish
their cargo of paddy, jute, oilseeds, jaggery, and what not, the
produce of the richest area in Bengal. Clumsy and heavy cargo-
boats from Bihar would be seen there as well as the lightly-built
and finely proportioned panshies from Dacca. But that which
gave the most active interest to the river-life, was the fleet of
fishing-boats that kept busy day and night catching hilsa, and
transporting the catch to Calcutta from Kushtia, the nearest
railway station.

At Shelidah we lived an entirely different life away from all
contact with society and completely confined to ourselves.
The change was in a way beneficial. Our family had grown,
and we five children had better opportunities of getting to

20

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

know our parents intimately and living in closer contact with
nature. My father became greatly concerned about our educa-
tion. He knew very well the evil effects of the stereotyped
school-teaching prevalent in our country, his own experience
in a Normal School in Calcutta having left a bitter impression
on his mind. It may be mentioned in passing that his first
criticism of the prevalent system of education appeared in his
article contributed to Sadhana as early as 1892. Sikshar Herpher
( The Tortuosities of Education ), as this essay was named,
was a vigorous and reasoned plea for acceptance of the mother-
tongue as the medium of instruction. It aroused considerable
interest amongst educationists including Sir Gooroodas Banerjee,
the first Indian Vice-Chancellor of the University of Calcutta.
Father was anxious that his own children should be spared such
unhealthy and stifling influences, so he engaged teachers who
lived with us. But the teachers had to be taught first. Father
began to devise his own methods and to train the teachers to
learn and follow them. Very often he would take the classes
himself.

Our teacher of English was an Englishman of a rather
interesting type. He was given a bungalow in the compound.
There he lived with thousands of silk-worms in which he had
become interested through Akshoy Kumar Maitra, the historian.
On Sundays, discarding all clothes, Mr. Lawrence would wrap
himself in old newspapers and lie amongst the caterpillars
which delighted in crawling all over him. He was very fond of
them and used to say they were his children.

We had lessons in English, Mathematics and Sanskrit from
the teachers. Father would not leave Bengali to them, but
taught it himself. At the time he was writing the poems of
Katha-o-Kdhini. He would take up one of the poems or some
selected prose paragraph and explain it in great detail to my
sister Bela and myself, paraphrasing and analyzing every sen-
tence. For me, who had then a rather elementary knowledge
of the language, these pieces would be quite difficult. But
Father did not care in the least. He never used any of the
usual graded readers such as are used in the schools. He liked
to start us at once on good literature. He did not like to make
children feel that because they were immature they must
read only that kind of silly stuff written specially for children

AT SHELIDAH

21

by people who had little conception of their mental aptitude
or capacity. He took such great pains to explain every word,
repeating it several times, that by the end of the lesson the
whole thing would be vividly impressed on our minds. It would
then be easy to memorize the piece. In this way in a short
time we could recite whole books of poems and descriptive
pieces of prose from well-known writers. Grammar we never
learnt — nor was it necessary. In English he would sometimes
assign us passages from Amiel’s Journal , one of his favourite
books; in Sanskrit, the selections from the Upanishads con-
tained in Brahmo Dharma. Some years later, he made me
memorize the whole of the Dhammapada in Pali.

Father was very keen that we children should know the Indian
classics well, especially the epics Ramayana and Mahabharata .
In the old days children had their education in literature,
social and moral ethics, and even philosophy and religion from
a very early age through hearing stories told them by their
grandmothers. Now they have to go to school as soon as they
can walk and grandmothers are no longer well versed in the
folk-lore and mythology of ancient India. The printed editions
of the Ramayana and Mahabharata are so bulky and contain
such a mass of irrelevant matter that they are of no use to
children. Even grown-ups find it difficult to wade through the
volumes. Father set my mother to prepare an abridged version
of the Ramayana , keeping to the original but leaving out
all superfluous and irrelevant matter so that the main story
could be read at a stretch. Father insisted that she should
consult the original Sanskrit and not depend upon Bengali
translations for preparing her text. This was difficult for
Mother, but undaunted she read the Ramayana with the help
of a Pandit, and only then did she start writing, but unfor-
tunately the book was not finished before she died and the
MS. of the portion she had written got lost. I remember with
what avidity we used to read her MS.

At the same time Father induced my cousin Surendranath
to prepare an abridged edition of the Mahabharata. Whenever
he came to Shelidah he used to bring the MS. with him to
consult Father. My sister Bela and I would not let him go
until he had read to us all that he had written since his last
visit. After Surendada had finished writing. Father took the

22

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

MS. with him to Santiniketan and entertained the pupils of the
school there by reading out to them the story of the Mahabha-
rata every evening. I was then (in 1903) preparing for the
Matric (then called the Entrance) examination. Father sat with
the boys in the verandah of the library, while my friend
Santosh and I were closeted with our Sanskrit tutor, Haricharan
Banerji, in a room in the same building vainly trying to un-
derstand difficult passages of Bhartrihari. Realizing that our
whole attention was elsewhere, Hari-babu complained to Father
that it was useless to expect the two boys t q pass their exa-
mination as long as the reading of the Mahabharata went
on. Father smiled and said, ‘If you will allow them to attend
my class they will know their Mahabharata well at least.’
From that day there was no more cramming in the evenings
and much to the surprise of our teachers we managed to pass
the examination. The first edition of Surendada’s Mahabharata
contained the whole of what he had condensed from the text
of Kaliprasanna Sinha. Considering it too bulky. Father pub-
lished a still further abridged edition under the name of Kuru -
Pandava.

Whilst Father looked after our academic education. Mother
had her own way of giving us training in the practical affairs of
life. Every Sunday she gave leave to the servants. My sister
and I were directed by her to do all the household duties.
My younger sisters were too young to take part in the work.
It was great fun ; what interested me was the cooking. Is it
not incumbent on the cook to taste each dish as soon as
prepared ? A giant of a Sikh turned up one day and asked for
employment. He was appointed durwan or gatekeeper. A
few days later, he came to Mother and complained that he
was not getting enough to eat. Mother asked him what he
would like to eat. He wanted only some chapatis with dal and
dahi, he meekly replied, and then added in an even meeker
voice, ‘May I have them in sufficient quantities ?’ We were
told to get these ready and see how much would satisfy him.
Heaps of chapatis were prepared and several pots of dahi.
Mother watched as the man started gulping down whatever
was served him. He must have consumed half a maund of
food before he stopped. Next day Mother asked my Father to
give the durwan a rise in his pay.

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

23

Visitors at Shelidah

During our stay at Shelidah we used to have visitors quite
frequently. Dwijendralal Roy — better known as D. L. Roy —
was magistrate at Kushtia, our Sub-divisional headquarters.
Whenever he could get away from his official work he would
come to our place. I happen to remember an amusing incident
in connection with one of his visits. Perhaps few persons know
that D. L. Roy — the poet and dramatist — began his career as
a trained agriculturist. In a spurt of enthusiasm the Govern-
ment sent four students to Cirencester College in England to
study the science of agriculture. D. L. Roy was one of the four.
When the four scholars returned with their specialized know-
ledge, the Government did not know what to do with them
as a department for agriculture had yet to be organized. Some
official high up in the ranks had a brain-wave, and all four of
them were appointed Deputy Magistrates. When D. L. Roy
used to visit us at Shelidah, years of administrative drudgery
must have made his knowledge of agriculture somewhat rusty.
But seeing that Father was laying out an extensive garden he
became enthusiastic and suggested the planting of potatoes
in a plot. At that time the cultivation of potatoes was almost
unknown in Bengal. Father had a plot made ready and
waited for instructions. These came in due course along with
some seeds. The directions were meticulously followed,
ignoring the protests of the gardener, an experienced farmer.
The harvest however was no more than the weight of the seeds
planted. Father was careful never again to seek agricultural
advice from his friend. He would rather hear him sing and
recite poems.

Jagadish Chandra Bose used to pay regular visits, specially
in the winter, when we moved from the house to live in house-
boats on the river. During the dry season the Padma shrinks
to a comparatively narrow stream, and wide sand-banks are
formed stretching for miles and miles. The sand is very clean
and dazzlingly white. Wandering over the undulating dunes
one would suddenly be agreeably surprised to find a crystal
clear lake or a meandering offshoot of the river inhabited by
thousands of wild duck, or a coppice of stunted casuarinas —
the favourite haunt of wild boars and jackals. A lonely spot

24

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

on one of these sand-banks would be chosen, and a fleet of
house-boats, country-boats, green-boats — a collection of all sorts
of river craft would take us over there. On the bank would
be erected a cluster of bamboo huts to accommodate the
retinue of servants and, what we children used to like most,
the temporary bath-house jutting right out into the river. Here
we would camp for the dry months of the winter until the
beginning of the summer, when the heat and the fury of the
nor’westers would drive us back home.

Jagadish Chandra Bose loved to spend the week-ends with
us on the river. He had travelled far and wide, but he used to
say that no health or pleasure resort in the world could rival
the chars of the Padma. He taught me how to trace the foot-
prints of the turtles and discover the eggs that were carefully
hidden under the sand. T had to bring him a bagful of eggs
every day for his breakfast. He would be more delighted still
when a live turtle was caught, for he relished the tender meat.
These creatures take great pains to hide their eggs from the
jackals but what they cannot efface are their own foot-prints
which show clearly on the smooth sands. It was very interest-
ing for me to follow the trail of parallel prints running like
railway-lines, and not to be confused at the crossing where other
mother turtles had fouled the track. Sometimes I would sur-
prise one of these slow-moving animals quite helpless on the
dry land far from the river. It was a simple thing to capture
it. One had only to turn it on its back. Jagadish Chandra Bose
had another hobby : he would make all of us dig pits in the
sand and with wet towels round our heads lie down in them
to sun-bathe, and then when the roasting process had gone far
enough jump into the cool water for a change.

Jagadish Chandra Bose had a wonderful fund of interesting
stories, some very amusing, of the many lands he had visited
and personalities he had met. He could go on telling them for
hours and days together, yet one would never get tired of listen-
ing to him for he could always make the most trivial facts
interesting, and his humour was so refreshing. He could also
laugh ; so few people can laugh well and at the proper time
and place. I would greatly miss him when he went away and
secretly I would take a vow to become a scientist like him when
I grew up.

VISITORS AT SHELIDAH

25

Jagadish Chandra was at this time making experiments to
compare the reactions on the Living and Non-living to different
kinds of stimuli. He believed the results he had obtained with
the help of the delicate instruments he had invented would
revolutionize the current conceptions held by scientists regard-
ing the nature of life. He had received great encouragement
from Sister Nivedita in pursuing this line of research. Father
was also much interested. When Jagadish was satisfied that he
had obtained sufficient convincing data to acquaint the scienti-
fic world of his discoveries he wanted to go to England to give
actual demonstrations of his experiments to scientists in order
to convince them of the truth of his deductions. Father
approached the Maharaja of Tripura and was able to get from
him sufficient money not only to enable Jagadish to go abroad
bu-: to fit up his laboratory with the equipment that he badly
needed.

The attachment of the scientist and the poet was much more
than just friendship. They would constantly exchange ideas.
One would talk of the next story to be written and the other
of the remarkable results obtained from experiments carried
on in his laboratory. They would not only appreciate each
other’s criticisms but derive inspiration from their discussions.
Every week-end that Jagadish came to Shelidah he would
make Father read out to him the short story that he had written
the previous week and get a promise from him to have another
ready the next week-end. It was not only the necessity of filling
the pages of Sadhana or Bhdrati but this constant demand from
his friend that made Father write so many short stories at this
period. Quite often he would not have sufficient time to finish
a story. Some of the stories in the Gcdpaguchchha bear evidence
of having been hurriedly written.

Besides Jagadish Bose and Dwijendralal Roy, Father had
other occasional guests. The historian Akshoy Kumar Maitra
was one of them. He was a lawyer in Rajshahi — but his chief
interest was historical research, especially that of Bengal. He
had collected a number of images and other relics of ancient
times that helped to throw much light on the history of the
province. This collection formed the nucleus of the Museum of
the Varendra Anusandhan Samiti founded by him later on.
But the claims of his profession and his scholarship were

26

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

overshadowed by his enthusiasm for a peculiar hobby — that
of silk-worm rearing. Whenever he came to Shelidah he would
bring some silk-worm eggs and give lessons on how to rear
the insects and produce silk yarn. Mr. Lawrence, who was
initiated in this hobby by him, produced such a huge quantity
of silk by the end of the year that Maitra was glad to acknow-
ledge him a worthy pupil. Akshoy Maitra could talk on many
subjects with authority but without pedantry and Father there-
fore enjoyed the days of his stay spent in pleasant discussions
on many subjects of mutual interest.

Whenever Amaladidi was with us Father’s passion for music
would be roused. The whole day he would be humming tunes
and Amaladidi would sit with him to pick up the music of the
newly composed songs. Our Indian tradition has always been
to learn music by ear and not by reading notations. We others
would wait expectantly for the evening. After a hurried dinner
the whole family would tumble into an open boat and, rowing
out into the middle of the river, keep it anchored there. Amala-
didi and Father would take turns and song after song would
float across the water uninterruptedly until midnight. I would,
of course, often be lulled to sleep on my mother’s lap long
before the party broke up. The river would be deserted and
there would be nothing to disturb the stillness of the night
except the gurgling of the eddies as they rushed past the boat.
The moon would shine like silver over patches of water ruffled
by the wind and occasionally belated fishing boats would be
silhouetted against the light as they glided down on the current.
Such songs as

Bela gelo tomar patha cheyi 1
Or

Sandhyara me gh a maid 2

still remind me of those nights when the haunting tunes of the
songs would blend with the rippling of the water, the rustling
of the soft breeze, the rhythmic splashing of the oars of passing
boats and the moonlight flooding the expanse of the river and
its banks with an ethereal beauty. A more romantic setting for
music cannot be imagined.

1 My day passes awaiting Thee

2 Thou wreath of evening clouds

father’s literary output

27

With the arrival of Maharaja Jagadindranath of Natore our
rustic camp on the sands of the river-bank took on a lively
appearance. His talent as a writer and musician is well-known.
But what we liked about him most was his genial personality,
his fund of humour and delicate appreciation of others what-
ever they might be worth. While Father would be entertaining
the Maharaja, Mother with the help of Amaladidi, who was an
expert in the cooking of East Bengal delicacies, would be busy
preparing the meals. Father knew that the Maharaja was a
connoisseur in the matter of food and she was determined to
satisfy his palate. I believe Natore enjoyed his week-ends at
Shelidah just as much as we enjoyed his company.

Father s Literary Output

Father’s output of writing was perhaps at its maximum during
the years at Shelidah. He composed poems and songs, wrote
short stories, essays and lectures — working hard all day long
and sometimes till late into the night. When he worked hardest
he ate very little. While Mother would get annoyed over this,
she knew very well that nothing could dissuade him, once he
had made up his mind. My cousin, Sarala Devi, was then
editing the literary journal Bharati. This journal had been
started by my eldest uncle, Dwijendranath, and the editorship
had remained confined to the members of the family. Father
had also served his term at one period. Saraladidi had asked
father to write a short drama for the journal. He had been
putting it off, not feeling in the mood to write a drama. Know-
ing him as she did, Saraladidi advertised that the first instal-
ment of a light drama by the Poet Rabindranath would
be published in the next issue of Bharati. After a few days
she wrote to Father informing him that she had to do this in
order to stimulate the flagging interest of the public in the
journal, and begged him not to let her down. Father was
furious at first ; but the next day he told Mother not to disturb
him for meals, but to send him occasionally glasses of liquid
refreshment, as he would be busy writing. He shut himself up
for three days in his room, and wrote without break on a fast-
ing diet. By the end of the third day he had finished that witty
drama Chirakumar Sabha (Bachelors’ Club). Not trusting the

28

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

MS. to the post he himself hurried off to Calcutta with it.
Mother knew, however, that it was not the urgency of handing
it over to the journal in time for publication that made him
depart so suddenly. As soon as he had finished a piece of
writing. Father always got restless until he had an opportunity
of reading it to a few friends. None of his literary friends was
at Shelidah at the time, so off he must go to Calcutta. He was
in such a weak condition after the fasting and the strain of
writing that he fainted going up the stairs in the Jorasanko
house. That gave Mother an excuse to make him go back to
normal diet.

His Managerial Work

In spite of the heavy literary work Father did not neglect his
managerial duties. Every morning he would go through the
accounts, hear reports from the staff, and dispose of important
correspondence. But the most interesting function for him
was to meet the tenants, hear their complaints and settle
disputes. He did not treat them in the traditional manner. He
talked with them freely and they too felt so much at ease with
him that they would tell him about their land, their families,
and their personal affairs. Father had made known that any
tenant who wanted to see him could go straight to him ;
no officer was to interfere with this inherent right of the tenant.
Thus was established a bond of love and respect between the
landlord and the tenants, a tradition that lasted in our estates
till the end.

In the office he was a hard taskmaster. The officers knew
that no negligence in their duties would escape his notice —
nor would he be satisfied with their notes and recommendations.
He read through every file, mastered all the details of the case
and gave his own judgment or passed orders independently.
The Government after some time came to recognize that no
injustice would be done in our estates, and allowed liberties
that were not enjoyed by other zamindars. Father told the
tenants not to go to any of the courts. They had their panchayats t
who would settle all disputes and even criminal cases. If they
were not satisfied there, the five pradhdns for the whole pergand
would hear their appeal. The landlord himself constituted the

A BUSINESS VENTURE

29

final court of appeal. This system prevailed for many years
and not a single tenant ever filed a suit in the magisterial or
munsiff courts nor did the Government ever object to the legal
powers assumed by us. Tn one of the estates a complete system
of self-government was introduced by Father, and it worked
wonderfullv well. Was not the Maharshi right in putting his
youngest son in charge of the estates, even if he was a poet
and a visionary ?

In looking after the estates. Father had constantly to tour
through many districts of rural Bengal since our properties were
spread over Nadia, Pabna, Faridpur, Rajshahi, Bogra and
even Cuttack in Orissa. Ffe particularly enjoyed travelling in
boats through the network of small rivers which wind their
way through the heart of the province. No other way of travel-
ling gives such opportunities of observing the life of the people.
Bengal is full of rivers, and our people are truly fond of them.
These rivers are like the bullock cart tracts, going as the fancy
takes them, bending twisting and sometimes doubling on their
tracks, they meander past the populous villages that cling to
their banks and wander at leisure through the fields of paddy,
jute, sugarcane, mustard and the various other crops that grow
abundantly, bringing the silt from afar spilling it generously
over the fields of this deltaic land. Sitting idly in. the boat one
never gets tired of watching through the windows 'the scenes
of domestic life that reveal themselves in endless variety.
Groups of women with their earthen-pots poised gracefully on
their hips coming down the ghats ; children swimming boister-
ously, splashing water at each other ; fishermen with their
innumerable ingenious devices engaged in trapping fish, pea-
sants loading their harvest on to boats till the brims almost
touch the level of the water ; a king-fisher perched motionless
on the tip of a hanging bamboo, ready to swoop down at the
sight of its prey — a life of toil, tranquillity and happiness
going on for ages unchanging and unspoiled.

A Business Venture

The town of Kushtia, the nearest railway station to Shelidah,
a distance of five miles by a kutcha road and a ferry crossing
over the river Gorai, was fast growing into a trading centre

30

ON THE EDGFS OF TIME

for the northern portion of the district of Nadia. We had some
land there which had commercial advantages, being quite
close to the railway station as well as to the river. Cousins
Balendra and Surendra were eager to launch into business
and induced Father to form a private company, which was
eventually registered as Tagore & Co. with the three as partners.
A house and some godowns were built facing the Kushtia
station and business started at first in the storage of grain and
then in the baling of jute. As profits began to come in, the
temptation to expand the business grew irresistible. Behind all
their artistic, literary and creative faculties, there lurked in the
Tagores a speculative tendency, perhaps an inheritance from
Prince Dwarkanath.

The peasants had found sugarcane a good money-crop,
and its cultivation had extended a good deal. But there was
the difficulty of crushing it. In Bengal this crop is not grown
in the plantation system but in scattered plots; so that factories
cannot be established. The primitive system of crushing was
too uneconomic. Somebody had invented a portable machine
with cylinders driven by bullocks. An Englishman named
Renwick had many of these machines made and established
a business with headquarters at Kushtia by renting these
machines out to the cultivators for the season. Tagore & Co.
took up this business also. Keen was the competition for some
years. The business would probably have flourished but for
the dishonesty of the manager. As a result, when the company
of the Tagores was wound up, Father found himself heavily
in debt as he took the entire liability on his own shoulders.
Thus ended father’s one and only adventure in business.

A Dramatic Episode

One of the visits to Shelidah during my boyhood has left a
lasting impression on my mind through its association with a
dramatic episode which took place while we were spending a
fortnight in a house-boat on the river Gorai.

It was the month of October, somewhere in the nineties, when
I was barely nine years of age. Father had taken me with him
on the boat, and although it was too early in the season, we
were cruising about looking for a suitable dry sand-bank. Father

A DRAMATIC EPISODE

31

was then editing the Bengali monthly Sadhana, the major por-
tion of which he had to fill with his own writings. Almost every
issue carried a story. These were later on published in collected
form as Galpaguchchha. Most of these stories contain vivid
and intimate descriptions of the day-to-day life of the common
people living in the villages of Bengal. And among such villages
Shelidah holds a distinctive place, because it was here that father
came into close contact with the children of the soil and gathered
his intimate knowledge of their joys and sorrows.

He would spend the whole day in the front cabin writing.
My time would be spent just as quietly in the adjoining cabin,
gazing with fascinated eyes at the ever-changing life on the
river. After sunset Father would take me up on deck and enter-
tain me as best as he could. One evening as we were sitting on
chairs placed close to the railing. Father’s slippers fell into the
water. They were well-worn and should have been discarded
long ago. Without a moment’s hesitation he dived into the river
and swam after them, fighting with the swift currents. The rest
of the evening was happily spent with the pair of salvaged
slippers, now rendered quite useless, drying in front of him.

But we were not destined to enjoy this idyllic life for long.
Without warning the clouds darkened the sky one morning and
a cyclone began to blow. Our boat had to take refuge in a
sort of bay, formed, as so often, by indentations of the banks
and known to the fishermen as dah. Into this dah , where neither
the current nor the waves could enter through its narrow bottle
neck, had crowded hundreds of river-craft. The storm raged for
three days. From our safe refuge we were the helpless witnesses
of the cruel devastation that took place on the river and in
villages on its banks. Wreckage of every description — sinking
boats, uprooted trees, roofs of houses — were swept along the
current in an unending procession.

On the afternoon of the third day, when the storm had some-
what abated but the waves on the river were still running high,
we went up on the top deck to stretch our limbs and get a
good view of the weird scene. Suddenly Father cried out that
there was a body floating down the middle of the river. Looking
carefully where he pointed, one could see nothing but a mass
of dark hair in the water, rising and falling with the move-
ment of the waves.

32

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Father immediately ordered the men to take the life-boat to
the drowning person— undoubtedly a woman. The boatmen
said it would be foolhardy to venture out in such a storm.
Father got annoyed and jumped into the life-boat himself. Still
they tarried, until our old Mahommedan cook roundly abused
them for being cowards and rushed to help father. Thoroughly
ashamed of themselves, they now followed him into the boat
and tried to redeem their cowardly conduct by compelling
Father to remain behind while they sallied forth. It was thrill-
ing to watch the frail little boat being rowed across the bois-
terous waves, the men pulling heftily for all they were worth,
led. by the encouraging gesticulations of the cook, who had
assumed command.

In the meantime the body had been carried a long distance,
and it was quite dark when the rescue-party returned with the
woman. The cook told Father that when the boat came along-
side and one of the men catching hold of her tried to drag
her in— the woman repeatedly beseeched them to let go. She
was far from drowning ; being an expert swimmer she found it
difficult to get rid of herself that way. She would not give her
name. But Father soon discovered that she was the wife of one
of our tenants— a handsome woman with little reason to be
tired of her young life.

The husband was sent for, and after Father had spoken to
him, not only did he take his wife home but— so goes the
story— never again did he give her cause to feel unhappy.

The Boat Padma

Father loved the river Padma, as most of his readers know
from the poems he has written in praise of its grandeur and
beauty. It is no wonder that he named his favourite house-boat
after this river. Although it was he who first gave it a name,
the house-boat could claim an older association with our family.
It was most certainly built by Prince Dwarkanath and remained
moored on the banks of the Hooghly near Calcutta during his
life-time and that of my grandfather, Maharshi Devendranath.
It is more than likely that the message of the death of the
Prince was brought by fast couriers to the Maharshi, while he
was on a pleasure cruise in this very boat. We have also on
record that my grandfather travelled up and down the Ganges
in this house-boat, often as far up as Banaras, and that one of
these trips was taken during the troublesome days of the Mutiny.

Before the age of steam engines the rivers, rather than the
roads, were the natural means of communication in our country,
especially in Bengal. The well-to-do had to keep a fleet of
river craft of all kinds for their use, of which house-boats with
comfortably furnished cabins formed an essential part. They
were used mainly for long-distance journeys but often also for
pleasure trips. The boats were of peculiar construction, only
to be found in Bengal. With a wide beam affording ample
accommodation and flat-bottomed, they were heavy and slow
of movement but well-suited to negotiate the shallow and un-
certain rivers of this province. Dacca made a business of build-
ing these boats, which are therefore commonly known as
Daccai bajrahs. Zemindars used to take great pride in them
and vied with each other in their construction, though today
they have no more use for them and rarely are they to be seen
now.

34

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

This boat Padma was cherished by Father as one of his most
prized possessions. During his youth, when he was completely
absorbed in his own self and his own creative work and avoided
society, this boat gave him the solitude that he needed. His
work of managing the extensive Tagore estates afforded him
greater opportunities of spending most of his time on the boat,
travelling on inspection from one district to another, and even
outside the province to villages in Orissa. Nothing could have
been more congenial to him and he made good use of the boat
until his middle age, when other interests took him away to
entirely different surroundings. He was thereafter obliged to
stay at Santiniketan ; the institution he had founded there
claimed all his attention. During the first few years of his stay
there, it was not unusual for him to leave his work suddenly
and go off to Shelidah and the boat. His letters show what
an amount of solace he derived from these holidays, snatched
from a life full of worries and anxieties at Santiniketan and
Calcutta.

That the two phases of his life — the solitary artist and recluse
of the youthful years, trying to probe into the depths of his
being to find the talisman that would touch with magic and
inspire with a meaning all his creative efforts, and the mature
man living a life of multifarious activities, sharing his thoughts
and work with his fellow-beings — should be associated with two
entirely different surroundings is significant. But there is no
doubt that his first and deepest love was for the country of
mellow green fields with their clusters of bamboo shoots sway-
ing gently in the south breeze and hiding villages in their midst,
of majestic rivers with their stretches of gleaming white sand —
the haunts of myriads of wild ducks, as well as of homely
rivulets with sweet-sounding names, meandering in and out
through peaceful villages hugging their banks. Such associations
had entered deeper into his life than the parched and barren
wastes that surrounded him at Santiniketan, the choice of his
later years. The river Padma and its sandbanks, Shelidah and
its fishermen and minstrels and its fields of golden yellow mus-
tard blossoms, the house-boat with its plucky boatman,' Tapsi,
and its grey-bearded cook, Phatik, must have haunted him in
his old age and made him feel homesick for all that he missed
at Santiniketan.

THE BOAT PADMA

35

In spite of Mother’s misgivings Father started taking me with
him on his frequent river journeys when I was little more than
a boy of seven. I have therefore some knowledge of how he
lived on the boat, when he used to retire to this favourite
retreat of his. I have also shared with him on the river many
an adventure and interesting experience. One such incident I
have already described elsewhere. But now I am mainly con-
cerned with the house-boat and its association with the literary
life of Father.

The headquarters of the three estates at Shelidah, Shahjadpur
and Potisar, and the factory at Kushtia, connected as they are
by navigable rivers, gave my father sufficient excuse to adopt
a roving life in a boat. My earliest recollection is that of a
visit to Kushtia. The railway station which hangs precariously
over the steep embankment of the Gorai and its one-legged
English stationmaster, the river with its swift current and eddies,
the innumerable barges and dinghies huddled close to the bank —
all seemed strange and forbidding to me. But once we stepped
into our boat, the homelike cosy interior comforted me. After
a frugal meal consisting mainly of hilsa fish. Father at once
settled down to write, while I watched with the intense curiosity
of a child the restless movements of the innumerable insects
that kept hovering over the water and the thousand and one
interesting sights to be observed on the riverside of a busy
locality. The factory was inspected in due course — its workshop
with its huge hydraulic presses for baling jute, the innumerable
sugarcane crushers waiting for shipment to interior villages, its
warehouses bulging with their loads of mustard and other oil
seeds, and the hundreds of workmen sweating and shouting.
Father looked into all the details of the business but it did
not take him long to do it ; he had a way of easily shaking
off the officers who came with long reports and accounts.
Business finished, he would immediately go back to his writing
as though the interruption mattered not at all. Only after sun-
set would he allow himself any rest. He would then take mfc
with him to sit on the deck. Of what he talked to me, I have,
of course, no recollection now. But most often we would sit
quietly and watch the fishing boats glide silently along with
the current, silhouetted against the soft glow of the sunset
colours until the stars came out one by one and the night

36

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

advanced with stealthy steps enveloping everything with mys-
tery. The venerable Phatik would then appear and break the
silence with his stentorian voice announcing dinner — a ceaseless
monotony of chicken cutlets and bread-pudding. My eyes would
get heavy even before the last morsels had been gulped down
but Father would sit till late reading or writing. He always
carried a library of books with him. I can vaguely recollect
treatises on ethnology, anthropology and other sciences, com-
parative grammars of the Indo-Aryan languages, Sanskrit classics
and books of travels, but hardly ever any light literature either
in Bengali or English. There might have been also the latest
books on the history of English Literature and Criticism, and
translations from French and Russian literature.

When he arrived at any of the estate headquarters, the
routine would not be much altered except that the mornings
would be given over to conference with the officers and the
hearing of endless petitions from tenants. What with the firing
of guns by quaintly dressed guards, and the blowing of conch-
shells by veiled women, the arrival at any of these places was
somewhat spectacular and reminded one of the Middle Ages.
If the visit happened to coincide with the Punyaha day, a pro-
cession would be formed and Father would be taken in a palan-
quin to the office building, in front of which a shamiana would
be put up to shelter the crowd gathered for the occasion. The
zemindar on such occasions has to sit on a raised platform, so
that everybody can see him. After some ceremonials, the tenants
one by one — the elders and the headmen of the villages first and
then the commoners — would be conducted to him, the nazarana
(payment of the first instalment of rent, generally a token pay-
ment only) paid, and blessings received with bowed heads.
While this quaint ceremony was going on hurried preparations
would be made for the feast which would follow. The tenants
themselves made all the arrangements and saw to it that the
precedents which social etiquette demanded were strictly
followed. Since several thousands had to be served, the fare
was very simple, consisting mainly of parched rice and sour
milk. It was a pleasure to see the enjoyment they derived from
such a feast.

The river Padma is so broad, the currents are so dangerous,
and the sudden storms strike it with such fury that risky ad-

THE BOAT PABjMA

37

ventures are not rare with those who live on its bank. Father
had his full share of them. He was a good swimmer. I have
seen him swim across the Gorai with ease. He taught me how
to swim by throwing me one day into the river from the deck
of the boat. It was unnecessary to repeat the lesson the next
day. Father enjoyed taking risks where others would hesitate.
Many a time the old manager at Shelidah would come with
folded palms beseeching him not to sail across the Padma in
such bad weather. But once Father had made up his mind it
was useless to try and dissuade him. When, however, it con-
cerned the safety of others he would easily get nervous and fret.

It is not easy for me to say which of the poems and songs
Father had composed or the stories and essays he had written
while living on the house-boat Padma . Perhaps some day an
industrious student of his literature will find out and give us
this information. It may, however, be safely conjectured that
the major portion of his literary productions up to the begin-
ning of the century was written on this boat. It was while
cruising leisurely through the many rivers of Nadia, Faridpur,
Pabna and Rajshahi, that his keen sense of observation gave
him the deep and intimate understanding of the life and land-
scape of rural Bengal, which permeates all his writings.

The boat Padma served my father well. It gave him peace
and shelter when the world harassed him. It offered him ad-
venture when he needed it. It took him into the heart of the
country and gave him materials for his writing. And above all
it gave him abundant pleasure.

A Trip to the Himalayas

Sister Nivedita had become enthusiastic over places of
pilgrimage in India — specially those in the remote mountains.
Those who have read her book. The Web of Indian Life , may
recall the idealized description of pilgrimages which she has
given in the book. Being a super-active person, she was not
content with merely writing but immediately thought of orga-
nizing groups of young men to visit some of these places, as
an essential part of their education. When Father heard from
Sister Nivedita that one of the monks from Belur Math —
Sadananda Swami — was going to lead one such group to the
shrine of Kedamath in the Western Himalayas, he made up
his mind to send me along with them. Father thought that this
sort of a hiking trip would be a good preliminary training for
the life of hardship he intended me to take up, as a pupil of
Brahmacharya Asrama at Santiniketan. I wonder how many
parents even today would let a boy of such immature age risk
a journey on foot trekking through the Himalayas two hundred
miles to a snow-capped peak 13,000 ft. high.

There was no time to waste. The outfit would have to be
simple — a pair of ochre-coloured dhoties and kurtas, a set of
warm underwear, a coat, two blankets, and a pair of ammuni-
tion boots. Provided with these and one hundred rupees we
started one evening from Howrah in a third-class railway
carriage. I found myself in a strangely assorted company. Be-
sides my cousin .Dinendra there were a few would-be Sannyasins,
one or two spoilt scions of the rich and the sons of some shop-
keepers. I was the youngest in the party, the others were much
older. My heart sank within me. But Swamiji soon took me
under his wing. When I found that beneath his austere yellow

A TRIP TO THE HIMALAYAS

39

robes he was very human and full of humour, I took courage.
Among his disciples were Amulya Maharaj and a son of
Mahendra Babu, the writer of the sayings of Ramakrishna.
Amulya Maharaj took care of me like an elder brother. I had
great respect for him. As Swami Sankarananda he is now the
President of the Ramakrishna Mission. We started to walk from
Kathgodam, the last railway station on the border of the Kumaon
hills. Beginning with easy stages of five to eight miles, we very
soon settled down to a steady twenty miles a day. It was too
much for some of the town-bred young men, and Swamiji got
rid of them at Nainital. A compact group of about ten of
us remained. It took us little over a month to cover the four
hundred miles to Kedarnath on the border of Tibet and back.
What a variety of experiences ! What enchanting scenes of
beauty were unfolded before our eyes every day ! What hard-
ships were borne with a stoicism worthy of seasoned moun-
taineers, what miseries observed amongst the countless pilgrims
struggling to go higher and higher up the hazardous path ! We
mingled with a continuous stream of pilgrims who came from
the sandy desertland of the Punjab, from the cocoanut groves
of Malabar, from the soft green fields of Bengal, from every
part of India. They included youngsters hardly out of their
teens, white-haired elders retired from all worldly affairs, newly-
wed brides and wrinkled old widows — men, women and chil-
dren of all description, old and young. They were dressed in a
hundred different garbs, — the gay colours of the Rajput women,
the magnificent turbans of the Punjabi army-officers, interming-
ling with the simple white dhoti and sari of the Bengalees, the
ample folds of the dust-coloured skirts worn by the women
of Agra and neighbouring districts, the long yellow robes of
the Sannyasins and the almost nude bodies smeared with ashes
and ochre paint of the different sects of Sadhus. Over two hundred
miles of stony path fringing the holy river as it wound its rough
way through Himalayan mountains, the way-worn pilgrims
marched. The wide valleys, hot and dusty, where grew apricots
and pomegranates, gradually gave way to forest glades scented
with the resinous gum of the deodars. The road climbs higher
and higher, until from a dizzy height the river is seen encircling
the feet of the hills, silvery like the anklets of a dancing girl.
Down in the gorge a precarious crossing is provided by a hang-

40

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

ing bridge of ropes over the rushing torrent leaping over boul-
ders as big as houses. Crossing a wide plateau, a flat prairie of
reeds and grasses with solitary mango-trees to mark the way,
the pilgrims reach Karnaprayag, where the river divides itself
in two — the turbulent Alakananda noisily following the wider
valley on its upward course to the glaciers of Badrinath and
the delicate blue-green Mandakini (Heavenly stream), true to its
name, rising rapidly through narrow gorges, cut into deeply
wooded slopes of the mountain-chain that leads to the ice-
fields of Kedamath.

Sitting in a circle under a spreading walnut tree, where the
limpid waters of the maidenly Mandakini disdain to mingle
their virgin purity with the muddy Alakananda, the women
light fires and bake ehapatis. Their hands keep time with the
lilting tune of the song composed for the occasion:

Kedarnathke charana-kamalame prana hamara atake 1

Steeper and steeper the path winds its way upwards. It is
hardly a path — a narrow wedge-shaped passage cut into the
rock rising almost perpendicular from the bottom, thousands
of feet below. The feet get swollen and bruised by the sharp
pointed flints. Only a few steps can be taken at a time ; breath
ing becomes difficult. Pain and misery are stamped on the face
of everyone. I hear a heart-rending cry behind me. Turning
round I see a decrepit beggar, almost in the last stages of
exhaustion, bemoaning the loss of the only bit of rag which
he had managed to wind round his blood-stained feet. As he
saw my pitying look, he cried out:

‘Don’t look like that ! This is a small matter. I shall not
be left behind. My Kedarnath is calling me; — who will stand
in my way ? Jai Kedar Ki Jai !

1 To the lotus feet of Kedarnath my soul holds fast.

Early Days at Santiniketan

It is against the nature of a genius to be content with a
monotonous existence or be satisfied with a single purpose nr
life. Father was no exception. Throughout his life he would
constantly want to change his living quarters, his surroundings,
his food and his clothes and, what mattered most, he needed
fresh fields to give scope to his active and creative mind. It
was no wonder that Shelidah could not hold him for very Jong.
His next move was to Santiniketan. He had become restless
and was eager to find a congenial place where he could ex-
periment with his ideas about education. What could better fulfil
the dream he had long cherished in his mind of the ideal
atmosphere and surroundings for children than what Santiniketan
seemed to offer ?

My earliest recollection of the Santiniketan Asrama goes back
to my childhood when I was only nine years of age. About this
time my cousin Balendranath had grown enthusiastic over the
idea of forming an All-India Theistic Society by the fusion of the
three Brahmo Samajes of Bengal, the Arya Samaj of the Punjab
and the Prarthana Samaj of Bombay. He had just then returned
home after a tour in the course of which he had met the leaders
of these religious societies and discussed with them the possi-
bility of an amalgamation. Being an unpractical idealist and
underrating the doctrinaire mentality of his friends, he came
back full of hope and proposed to my grandfather that a con-
ference of all theists be called at Santiniketan. The Maharshi
immediately sent for Pandit Shivadhan Vidyarnava of the Adi
Samaj, who used to teach me the rudiments of Sanskrit, and
ordered him that within three months I should be prepared for

42

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

the Upanayan 1 ceremony which was to take place at Santiniketan.
This would serve as an occasion for inviting not only the
Theists but all well-known Vedic pundits from every province
in India. At the end of three months I was to be examined by
the Maharshi himself to see whether I could recite correctly
and with proper intonation his selections from the Upanishads ,
called Brahmo-dharma. My teacher, who had no illusions, re-
garding his pupil, trembled at the herculean task imposed upon
him. However, the Maharshi’s word was law, and teacher and
pupil set to work with such grim determination that at the end
of the prescribed period my grandfather was greatly pleased to
hear me recite the mantras so dear to him. Much to my chagrin
the reward, a fat cheque, went to my teacher.

The invitations for my Upanayan were now issued and I was
taken to Santiniketan. The ceremonies were performed according
to Vedic rites with eminent pundits as witnesses. My trial began
early one morning when with shaven head, wearing a yellow
robe and holding a long stick (< danda ) in one hand and a beg-
ging bowl in the other, I had first of all to recite the Upanishadic
slokas and then take the bowl round for alms to each of the
guests assembled at the Mandir. Then followed the usual con-
finement for three days, during which the Gdyatri mantrcun had
to be learnt.

But unfortunately this was not the end, as far as I was
concerned. Among the pundits there had come the renowned
Vedic scholar Brahmavrata Samadhyayi from Banaras. He told
my father that although my pronunciation was good, I should
be taught to recite the Vedas strictly according to the Vedic
rules. He was the only authority on the subject, and volunteered

1 The sacred thread ceremony.

The Upanayan takes place when a Brahmin boy is considered to be
or a fit age to be attached to a Guru (teacher) to begin his education. He
is taught the Gayatri mantram which every Brahmin is expected to repeal
morning and evening as the text for his contemplation of the Infinite and
is given the sacred thread to wear as a symbol of his initiation as a
Brahmin. In ancient times the boy had to leave his home and live with
his Guru in a forest hermitage as a Brahmachari. Only after having lived
a spartan life during years of rigid training was he allowed to go home
and take up the duties of a householder. At present the Upanayan has
lost its real significance and the Brahmacharya period is reduced to only
three days of seclusion.

EARLY DAYS AT SANTINIKETAN

43

to stay on to teach me how to chant the Vedas. The lessons
began with the meticulous rendering of the sound of Om. After
a week of drilling I found that I had not made any appreciable
progress in comprehending the mystic significance of this sym-
bol. But the lessons continued. Thus my earliest recollection of
the Asrama is associated with these feeble attempts at uniting
my shrill treble with the sonorous' bass of the giant pundit,
chanting verses from the Sdma-Veda.

After about three years, most of which had been spent at
Shelidah, I came back at the age of twelve to Santiniketan and
this time for good. By a deed of trust the Maharshi had made
over the lands and buildings at Santiniketan for the purpose
of establishing an Asrama. One of his landed properties yield-
ing an yearly income of Rs. 1,800 had been endowed for its
maintenance. The Trust came into being in 1887. Amongst
other things the Trust provided for the establishment of a
Brahma-Vidyalaya and a Library, and for the organisation of
an annual country fair to mark the anniversary of his own ini-
tiation to Brahmo-dharma (7th Paush). Father had obtained
permission from the Maharshi to start a school to be called
Brahmacharya Asrama at Santiniketan. The formal opening
ceremony was to be performed on the 7th Paush (23rd December)
1901. Father took us there a few months ahead so that he
could make preparations beforehand. He had, in the meantime,
sold his bungalow on the Puri sea-beach in order to form the
nucleus of a fund for starting the institution. Jagadananda Roy,
who had served under him at Shelidah and whose services he con-
sidered too valuable to be wasted in a zemindary office, and
also a homeopath doctor, were immediately sent for to help him.

As the Guest-house could not be utilized for the school, the
only other existing building, a three-roomed house in the south-
west corner, of the garden, was made over for the purpose. The
first step taken towards equipping the school was to fit up a
library in one of the rooms of this house. Father had brought
his magnificent collection of books from Calcutta and this
formed the nucleus of the future library at Santiniketan. The
library has never been shifted since. The original building still
forms the core of the present Visva-Bharati Library, but is so
engulfed by later additions that it can hardly be distinguished.
After the books had been safely stacked, it was found necessary

44

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

to give attention to the accommodation for students. The doctor
was entrusted with the construction of a dormitory. In those
days we had so few workers that the doctor had to undertake,
in addition to his professional work, the duties of manager,
engineer, kitchen superintendent and a host of other offices.
A mudhouse was built next to the Library — a most inconveni-
ently long and narrow shed, which remained for many years
the only shelter for students as well as for teachers, and a por-
tion of which still survives as the Adi-Kutir. The only other
building to boast of was the kitchen, a few walls of which still
form part of the Visva-Bharati office.

By appealing to some friends four pupils were obtained from
Calcutta. I myself brought the number up to five. We were all
clothed in long yellow robes as befitting Brahmacharis. On the
day of the opening ceremony, however, we were given red silk
dhotis and chaddars and it made us feel very proud and im-
portant to stand in a row in the Mandir, the cynosure of all
eyes. My uncle Satyendranath conducted the prayers and there
was quite a distinguished gathering on the occasion. The 7th
Paush Mela was already an established institution of Santiniketan.
Strangely enough its character has remained much the same
through more than half a century. Formerly it lasted for one
day only. Father had composed some new songs for the open-
ing ceremony, one of which, Mora satyer pare man, 1 remained
as the school song for many years until it was replaced by
Amader Santiniketan 2 .

With the gradual increase in the number of pupils more
teachers began to arrive. My old Sanskrit teacher Pandit
Shivadhan Vidyarnava was brought from the Adi Brahmo Samaj.
A Sindhi disciple of Brahmabandhab Upadhyaya, Rewachand,
who was afterwards known as Animananda Swami when he
founded a school on the lines of Santiniketan on the outskirts
of Calcutta, joined shortly afterwards as a teacher of English.
He was a Roman Catholic and a strict disciplinarian ; his was
the kind of discipline learnt on the cricket field and applied to
everyday life. This hardly appealed to Father and clashed with
the ideal of freedom and self-determination which he sought

1 We dedicate ourselves to truth.

2 Our own Santiniketan.

EARLY DAYS AT SANTINIKETAN

45

to establish in the Asrama ; as a consequence, Rewachand had
to leave very soon. Subodh Chandra Majumdar, a cousin of
Srish Chandra Majumdar — an old friend of father’s — came as
our teacher of Bengali. With him also arrived Srish Babu’s son
Santosh as a student. We were the only two pupils in the
Entrance class and we became bosom friends. The system of
electing monitors and captains was introduced from the begin-
ning of the school. But the election was observed merely as a
formality during the five years Santosh and myself remained
as boarders. We took turns in captaining the wild crowd of
students that came, for Santiniketan, unfortunately, was regarded
more or less as a reformatory in those days. This long-continued
training in leadership was of great help to us both in later life.

It is difficult to remember the chronological order in which
the old batch of teachers came to the Asrama. But it was
during the second and third years that teachers like Hari
Charan Banerji, Bhupendranath Sanyal, Satish Chandra Roy,
Ajit Kumar Chakravarty, whose names are still familiar to most
persons connected with the Asrama, joined the institution. Our
first Headmaster, in the real sense, was Monoranjan Banerji, a
cousin of Rev. Kalicharan Banerji, who took charge when we
were preparing for the Entrance Examination. He did not re-
main very long as the place did not suit his health.

The life led by both pupils and teachers was not only simple
but almost austere. The ideal of Brahmacharya was the keynote
of everything. The yellow uniform, which covered up the
poverty of clothes; a pair of blankets, which served as our only
bedding ; the vegetarian meals comparable to jail diet in their
dull monotony — these were the standards laid down. Nobody
wore shoes or even sandals and such luxuries as toothpaste or
hair oil were taboo. I think one of the sorest trials my mother
ever had was when Father insisted that I should live in the
school boarding-house. She could not bear the miserable condi-
tion in which we lived, especially with regard to food, and tried
to console herself by frequently inviting the teachers and students
and feeding them with tempting dishes prepared by herself.
Naturally she did not resent it when surreptitious raids were
made on her pantry.

In spite of everything — the poverty and lack of normal
comfort and convenience — nobody complained, for we really

46

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

believed in simple living and took pride in our poverty. How-
ever simple, the strain on Father’s resources to maintain the
school must have been great. The institution had no income of
its own besides the annual Rs. 1,800 drawn from the Santiniketan
Trust. For several years students were not charged fees of any
kind. They were given not only free education, but food and
very often clothing as well. The whole burden had to be borne
by Father, when his own private income was barely Rs. 200 a
month. My mother had to sell nearly all her jewellery for the
support of the school, before she died in 1902.

But it would be wrong to emphasize only the dark side of
the picture. We were essentially a happy lot and life was very
rich and interesting in spite of our outward poverty. Whenever
Father was present, he poured his soul into the institution and
made it lively by singing songs which he never tired of com-
posing, reciting his poems, telling stories from the Mahabharaia ,
playing indoor games with the boys, rehearsing plays, and even
taking classes. All the teachers lived with us in the same dormi-
tory, and we shared joys and sorrows equally amongst us. There
was a wonderful feeling of genuine camaraderie. The teachers
never resented the many practical jokes we played on them be-
cause they knew there was respect underneath the occasional
harmless fun we indulged in. We had a wholesome fear of
Jagadananda Roy, but that did not dissuade us from playing
tricks on him sometimes. I remember particularly one instance.
Once when he was sleeping soundly on a cot in the verandah
a few of us lusty rascals quietly lifted him up with the bed and
then with cries of ‘ Harl boi (pray to God) made straight for
the bund (river) where the immersion took place. ‘Master-
mashay’ was all the time showering curses on us, but we did
not mind because we could detect a faint flicker of a smile
hidden beneath his furious exterior.

We were indeed a happy family, perhaps too big to be always
homogeneous, but toleration for the weaknesses and idiosyn-
crasies of individuals and respect for each other kept the group
together in a bond of brotherly feeling, which gave a distinct
character to the institution. Talented young men hardly ever
came to us, but whatever their intellectual attainments, a few
months at the Asrama stamped every student with a character
which easily marked him off from the crowd. This kind of

A SUMMER VACATION AT SANTINIKETAN 47

character-building, to my mind, has been a real contribution of
Santiniketan to our country.

A Summer Vacation at Santiniketan

A fortnight of scorching sun and hot winds at the end of April
1904. The students had closed their books and gone away to
seek kinder shelter elsewhere. The summer vacation at Santi-
niketan had begun, and left me and a few other unfortunates
(including my nephew, Dinendranath, whom father once des-
cribed as the ‘custodian’ of his songs) to a vagabond existence
in the empty halls of the institution. The humming life of the
Asrama had all of a sudden stopped. We prepared ourselves
for a succession of dull monotonous days and the discomforts
of a dry hot season. But very soon I got used to the emptiness
and the loneliness. Instead of getting bored, as I had expected,
I was surprised to find that new interests and strange beauties,
which had quite escaped me during the busy life of the term,
gradually began to permeate my consciousness and in the end
completely enveloped me.

Nature is a jealous mistress : she will give herself only to
those who come to her in solitude and with a clean mind.
Everyday we had risen as the bells sounded and the early dawn
had reddened the horizon just beyond the row of palms. But
our eyes had failed to see it. Now the bell did not ring, but
I hastened out of bed long before the dawn broke in the eastern
sky, fearful lest I missed a shade of colour I had not seen be-
fore. The days were long, but every hour was charged with
possibilities, every tree bore a message, every twitter of the
birds added a new zest to life. My friends and my noisy class-
mates had deserted me, but the earth, the air, the sky, the
little animals and insects that we scorned even to glance at on
other days, had come so close to me that I could not turn away
but had to look at them again and again and each time un-
cover some new secret, some unfamiliar aspect. It was with a
keen desire for such strange discoveries and novel experiences
that I would roam about the barren wastes in the blazing sun,
or follow a myna to its nest in the sal forest, or keep long
hours of vigil to hear the sound of the insects at night.

It was not all poetry. One day about noon I was standing

48

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

in the verandah of the library, looking at the heat-waves rising
rhythmically over the barren rice-fields and the occasional whirl-
winds that would come from nowhere, gather the dry leaves
and shoot them straight up to impossible heights, when a pair
of hyenas coolly walked into the scene and, in the twinkling
of an eye, before I could take up a stick and run after them,
one of them had killed a lamb, lifted it bodily up on its back:
and disappeared. The chase was quite useless, and in any case
the lamb had been dead long before I realised what had
happened. The daring swiftness of these animals is unbelievable.

It was during the summer holidays that I came in close
contact for the first and last time with the poet Satish Roy. For
he died before the next holidays began. But who can gauge the
infinite value of the companionship of a rare genius, even
though it be for a short time? He radiated energy and enthu-
siasm, combined a fearlessly critical mind with an almost
voluptuous enjoyment of all that was good. Naive and abso-
lutely unconventional in his thoughts and habits, he was withal
deeply respectful where respect was due. The most wonderful
thing about him was the rich store of his knowledge of litera-
true ; a youth of twenty-one, he could recite for hours freely
from Virgil, Dante, Goethe, Shakespeare or Kalidas, — his
favourites being Browning and Rabindranath. His generous
nature knew no distinctions, and although at that time I was
quite immature in years and mind, Satish Roy poured his
store of knowledge and his soul on me. During the day we
would sit in a cool dark comer of the library and read the
classics. And very often the whole night was spent lying on our
backs on the bare ground, watching the constellations dip one
after the other into oblivion, and listening to his voice reciting
Bengali poetry. It was rarely necessary to ask the meaning of
a word or a passage, his declamation was so expressive. But
never did I hear him recite so well (and never shall I want to
hear poems recited again from the mouth of any one else) as
he did one day to the accompaniment of a thunderstorm that
swept over the Asrama. As it was exceptionally hot and sultry
that afternoon — it was the last day of Chaitra 1 — we had kept

1 That is, the last day of the Bengali year, falling somewhere about the
' middle of April.

A SUMMER VACATION AT SANTINIKETAN

49

inside the darkened room longer than usual. As we stepped
out, a glorious sight took us completely by surprise. Black, inky
clouds had gathered in the northwest sky and kept advancing
like the deep cavernous mouth of an angry monster, ready to
swallow the earth. Terrible were its deep sonorous rumblings,
and its path was marked with clouds of red dust mountain-
high. We stood awe-struck on the verandah and watched its
rapid progress across the open ground, until it flung itself upon
the Asrama with deafening peals of thunder and blinding
showers of rain. At the same time Satish Roy’s voice rang out
with the opening stanza of Barsha-ShesK the well-known poem
of my father on a stormy ‘Year End’ :

Thou comest. New Year, whirling in a frantic dance
amidst the stampede of the wind-lashed clouds
and infuriate showers,
while trampled by thy turbulence

are scattered away the faded and the frail
in an eddying agony of death. 1

His voice never faltered once, and kept even pace with the
storm till the last line. I do not know whether I listened to the
words that were uttered or merely watched entranced the
speaker whose every movement seemed inspired. Before we rea-
lised what had happened, Satish Roy had vanished into the
storm. Afterwards a search-party found his battered and half-
dead form lying under a tree near the Bhuvandanga village.

With Satish Roy and Dinendranath as our leaders during the
vacation, the atmosphere of the Asrama became charged with
poetry and music. Everyone had either to fall into line with
this mood or be lost in his own isolation. There was a puritan
gentleman, a fine figure with a flowing white beard like a
Hebrew patriarch, who did not approve of us youngsters lead-
ing this sort of Bohemian life in the Asrama. Like one of those
Pilgrim Fathers, he considered Santiniketan to be a puritan
colony, and therefore it hurt his sense of propriety to see us
listening to unexpurgated editions of Shakespeare and Kalidas.
T once remember him hurriedly leaving the adjoining room
where he had his office, stopping both ears with his fingers, to

1 Free translation of the original Bengali by the author, first published
in the Spectator, London, 10 Jan. 1913.

50

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

avoid overhearing some particularly delectable passages from
Sakuntala.

A teacher of science had come to spend the vacation with us,
and he gave me lessons in chemistry with the help of a few
test-tubes and beakers that lay in the dust in a corner of the
so-called laboratory. He soon fell in with the general atmos-
phere and even began to personify the elements into deities —
some with four arms, some with ten heads and so on, and gave
graphic descriptions of their love-makings and jealousies. His
descriptions were so vivid that later on when I had to take up
a more serious study of the subject, I had no difficulty in work-
ing out any chemical formula. At that time we had no idea
that the same science teacher would become a well-known poet
of modern Bengal . 1

Father had accompanied my ailing sister to Almora, from
where he used to send us fresh mountain-honey as a consola-
tion. He had left the Asrama in charge of Brahmabandhab
Upadhyaya, a remarkable figure in many ways. Born in an
orthodox Brahmin family, he was attracted to the Brahmo
Samaj in his youth. His reading of Cardinal Newman’s works
later on made him a convert to the Catholic faith. During this
period, he edited a remarkable weekly in English, called Sophia.
Although a Catholic, he dressed in the saffron robes of a Hindu
sannyasin, such was his strong national feeling. It was this in-
born national pride which made him finally give up Christianity
and take to a militant form of Hinduism towards the end of
his life. He came to the Asrama when he was still in an unsettled
state of mind. But very soon the rapid development of virulent
nationalism in Upadhyaya led to a parting of the ways. Father
remained content with the purely educational experiment at
Santiniketan, while the other started the pungent national daily,
Sandhya, and threw himself headlong into politics in Calcutta.
I have rarely met any one who could speak or write such beauti-
ful and chaste English. But when he took to politics he gave it
up for a virile colloquial Bengali of a Hitlerian type.

We regarded Brahmabandhab not only as the immediate head
of the institution, but as a sannyasin , a spiritual man, before
whom we would stand in great awe and fear. One day a wrestler

1 The late Prof. Surendranath Maitra.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

51

from the Punjab wandered into the Asrama and challenged
anybody to give him a trial. A look at his figure kept everyone
at a good distance. We youngsters were beginning to feel dis-
appointed at missing such a rare treat like this when, to our
consternation and surprise, Upadhyayji came running in tights
and, with loud slaps on the biceps, as is the custom, challenged
the Punjabi giant to a fight. And didn’t the Bengali intellectual
give a good time to the professional wrestler !

The aspect of Santiniketan during the dry summer months
is little known to outsiders : the extreme heat and dryness which
make the grass crackle underfoot, the burnt sienna colour of
the whole landscape, the hot gusts of wind that raise clouds
of red dust, and the sudden thunderstorms that are gorgeous
to witness but destructive to all property. It is indeed a Rudra-
Vaisakh 1 that visits this place, but how like magic everything
is changed after the first good shower in June ! With one sweep
of the magician’s wand, leaves clothe the trees again, the mea-
dows become softly green, the birds sing ceaselessly from every
branch, the desert is transformed into a garden.

Nature rejoiced — but when the term began I took my seat
in the class with a heavy heart.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

My student life in the Santiniketan Asrama should have ended
when I passed the Entrance examination. Provision for collegiate
training in the institution came to be made much later. But
Father did not like the idea of sending me to a college in
Calcutta. So I stayed on at Santiniketan monitoring the pupils
whose number had increased to more than fifty and picking up
whatever knowledge I could obtain for myself from the teachers.
Vidhusekhara Bhattacharya had just then come to us from
Banaras. I could not have had a better teacher for Sanskrit and
Pali. He would not let us treat Sanskrit as a dead language.
Not content with making me memorize the Panini grammar and
analyze difficult texts of Kalidas, Bhartrihari and other authors,
he would insist on our carrying on conversation in that classical

1 Rudra , terrible, the destructive aspect of Siva ;

Vaisakh , corresponding to April-May.

52

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

language. I was equally fortunate in having Mohit Chandra Sen
as my teacher of English. After we had gone through A Mid-
summer Night's Dream , Mohit Babu wanted this play to be
staged at Santiniketan. Undaunted by the paucity of talents
equal to producing a play in English, and one of Shakespeare’s
at that, we made preparations there and then. No one was
spared. Our teacher of Mathematics, Jagadananda Roy, was
given the part of Wall since he had only a few lines to speak.
On the night of the play he duly came on the stage, started with
the opening line, ‘In this same interlude it doth befall that I,
one Snout by name, present a Wall’, then stopped, looked en-
quiringly at all the other actors on the stage to see if they could
help him to remember the rest of his speech and at last saying, ‘And
thus have I Wall my part discharged so’, made a hasty exit as
the audience roared with laughter. However unfortunate his first
appearance on the stage he was not spared by Father and later
on he earned a reputation as a consummate actor when some of
Father’s dramas were performed in Calcutta. Particularly in the
role of Laksheswar in Saradotsab as the miserly merchant, his
acting rose to the height of perfection. It would almost appear
as if he was cut out for the part or the part for him.

The Shadow of Death

While Father was entirely absorbed in his educational experiment
at Santiniketan, Mother fell ill and she had to be taken to
Calcutta for treatment. Before the doctors gave up hope Mother
had come to realize that she would not recover. The last time
when I went to her bedside she could not speak but on seeing
me, tears silently rolled down her cheeks. That night my sisters
Bela, Rani and Mira and myself and my brother Sami — who
was then just a small child — we were all sent to sleep in another
part of the house. But Bela and I could not go to sleep. A
vague fear kept us awake. Early in the morning we crept out
on to a terrace overlooking the room where Mother slept. An
ominous silence hung over the house, the shadow of death seemed
to have crossed its threshold with stealthy steps during the
night. We knew without anyone telling us that we had lost our
mother. That evening my father gave me Mother’s pair of slip-
pers to keep. They have been carefully preserved ever since.

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

53

Father kept outwardly calm and went back to Santiniketan to
his work there as though nothing had disturbed his mind, leaving
us in the care of a distant aunt of my mother. But his feeling —
the keen sense of separation and loneliness — poured into a series
of poems afterwards published as Smaran (In Remembrance).

In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of
my room ; I find her not.

My house is small and what once has gone from it can
never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have
come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thy evening sky and
lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing
can vanish — no hope, no happiness, no vision
of a face seen through tears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the
deepest fullness.

Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of
the Universe.

The death of my mother was only the beginning of a succession
of deaths of many of those whom my father loved most.

Soon after he had returned to Santiniketan and had barely
started to devote his attention to the school, my sister Rani
developed tuberculosis and Father had to take her to Hazaribagh
for open-air treatment. At that time there were no sanatoriums
for treatment of this disease. Father, knowing that he would
have to be absent for a long time, was anxious to find a trust-
worthy person under whose care he could leave the institution.
He had recently come in close contact with Mohit Chandra Sen
who was then engaged in getting ready a complete edition of
his writings. Father had not only a deep regard for Mohit Babu’s
scholarship but was attracted to him by his charming persona-
lity. Mohit Babu was then a professor in a college in Calcutta.
During the absence of Father he used to pay frequent visits
and later on, resigning his professorship, settled down at Santi-
niketan and devoted himself to the school.

Finding that the climate of Hazaribagh was not bracing
enough Father took my sister to the hills of Almora. I was left
as a regular boarder in the Santiniketan school. After I had sat
for the Entrance examination and returned to the school Mohit

54

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Babu read Milton and Shakespeare to me and Vidhusekhara
Bhattacharya taught me Sanskrit and Pali. My leisure hours
were spent in translating Asvaghosha’s Buddha-Charita into
Bengali. After many years the translation was published by the
Visva-Bharati in two volumes. My knowledge of Sanskrit had
become so rusty by that time that I am ashamed to confess that
the final editing of the book had to be entrusted to a scholar of
the Research Department at Visva-Bharati Vidya-Bhavana.

With the summer vacation the students and most of the staff
left Santiniketan and I was left to my own devices. On my
father’s desk I discovered two bound volumes containing copies
of letters written by him to my cousin Indira. My cousin had
evidently carefully preserved all the letters and copied them out
in her beautiful handwriting in the two volumes neatly decora-
ted by her brother Surendranath. I was greatly excited by the
discovery. With a deck-chair and these two books I climbed on
top of a little hillock and settled down to read the letters under
the shade of a banyan tree. The panorama of the barren plain'
extending as far as the horizon, with nothing to break its mono-
tony except a line of palmyra palms standing like sentinels
keeping vigil over the midday solitude, spread out before me as
I lay there. The heat reflected from the sandy wasteland vibra-
ted rhythmically as it rose through the still air. Not even a bird’s
note distracted my attention. They had retired to leafy shades of
the trees to escape from the burning heat of the sun.

The letters were written mostly from Shelidah and Potisar
while Father was cruising about the rivers in that part of Bengal
in his house-boat. I had been longing to spend the vacation
there amidst the lusciously green fields and the placid waters
of the rivers whereas I had to be content with the arid waste-
lands around Santiniketan where not even a blade of green
could be seen. But the vivid descriptions in the letters had a
magical effect on me. For days I would be transported to my
favourite haunts in Shelidah and Potisar. Never have I read any
book with more enjoyment. These letters were published by me
and my brother-in-law Nagendranath Gangulee in 1911 as
Chhinna-Patra. Unfortunately Father had mercilessly run his
pen through good portions of the letters.

While I was loitering about the Asrama and reading the letters
over and over again the sad news of the death of my sister

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

55

Rani was conveyed to me from Calcutta. Father had brought
her back there finding that she had much improved in health
in Almora — but a relapse ended fatally and she died nine
months after the death of my mother.

Father now devoted himself with renewed zeal to the affairs
of the school. The most difficult task was to find the right kind
of teachers. Frequent changes had to be made. Every time a
new teacher was engaged Father had to train him and mould
him to fit in with the ideals of the Asrama. Under his guidance
the school began to grow. It had started with five students and
now there were more than fifty. Unfortunately just when he
was feeling satisfied with the progress that was being made
another mishap occurred in the family that greatly disturbed
Father’s mind. My grandfather, the Maharshi, died in Calcutta.
Father had to go there as soon as he heard about his illness
and remained a long time there after grandfather’s death to
settle business affairs consequent on the passing away of the
head of a big family like ours. After the death of the Maharshi
the family broke up — the members no longer lived together as
in a Hindu joint family.

The death of my brother Samindra took place when I was in
college in America. My younger sister Mira and Sami had re-
mained at Santiniketan with Father when I left for the U.S.A.
Sami was a bright imaginative boy and we all cherished the
hope that he would be a poet like Father when he grew up. But
fate decreed otherwise. While holidaying with some friends at
Monghyr he fell a victim to cholera and died soon after Father
arrived there. A cable brought this terrible news to me in a
boarding house far from home.

A few years later, after I had settled down at Santiniketan my
sister Bela, who was staying with her husband in Calcutta, fell
ill. Like Rani, my elder sister also developed tuberculosis. From
the time that she fell ill and until her death Father was constantly
by her bedside attending her as no nurse could possibly do and
trying his best to keep her cheerful. Bela could write well.
Father gave her some plots and made her write short stories.
Bela was his favourite child and her death was a severe blow
to him.

Vicissitudes of life, pain or afflictions, however, never upset the
equanimity of my father’s mind. Like his father, the Maharshi,

56

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

he remained calm and his inward peace was not disturbed by
any calamity however painful. Some superhuman sakti gave
him the power to resist and rise above misfortunes of the most
painful nature.

Throughout all these years of the severest trial to him
Father’s pen never had any rest. While he was nursing Rani
and taking her from one health resort to another in the vain
effort to cure her malady, he was engaged in writing the novels

Chokher Bali (Eye-Sore) and Nauka Dubi (The Wreck). Father

hardly ever completed writing a novel at a stretch. As each
chapter would get written it would be sent to the journal publi-
shing the novel as a serial. Even when he would be passing
through very great distress editors never had to wait for the
regular instalments from his pen. Only a perfect control of the
emotions together with an irrepressible urge for creative ex-
pression could explain the continuous outpouring of his

thoughts in poems, novels, short stories, essays and other
writings irrespective of his surroundings or circumstances,

mental or physical.

The Swadeshi Movement

Another midsummer madness which took hold of me during
the period between my Entrance Examination and departure
for the U.S.A. was the fervour of an aggressive kind of patrio-
tism. I was drawn into the whirlpool of politics that was agita-
ting the country. The Swadeshi movement in Bengal started at
the very beginning of this century and reached its acme during
the years 1905 and 1906. To us, nurtured from childhood in an
atmosphere of all that nationalism truly denoted, it did not
come as a surprise. Those who have read my father’s Remini-
scences will remember how even in his boyhood days he wit-
nessed many a valiant effort made by his elders to introduce
Swadeshi in every sphere of life. A classic example was the
attempt made by my uncle Jyotirindranath, whose main interest
was in art and music, to float a river navigation company as a
Swadeshi enterprise. He actually purchased a few steam-boats
and started plying them on the East Bengal rivers. This fool-
hardy adventure very soon came to an abrupt end after a
powerful British combine by somewhat questionable means
compelled my uncle to wind up his business. He had to pay
dearly for his patriotic zeal as it took him long years to repay
his borrowed capital.

These efforts were only an outward symbol of their Swadeshi
spirit. In their ways of living, style of dress and even in their
manner of thinking, our family had remained entirely Indian in
spite of the impact of English manners and customs which domi-
nated the educated upper classes of India. In our family we were
Indians to^ the core. Therefore when our countrymen took up
the cry of Swadeshi it found a ready response in our hearts.

58

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

This movement was a people’s movement — spontaneous and
not whipped up by any political organisation — and it may be
said to have started as a reaction to the abortive and mildly
moderate politics of the National Congress. The people had be-
come restive — they wanted to go into action to throw off the
yoke of a foreign rule. The negative and quite ineffective pro-
gramme of passing resolutions by the Congress did not satisfy
them. A frenzy of feeling for the motherland was in evidence
everywhere. Bengal was carried along a wave of emotion unsur-
passed in her history. Its ripples reached us even at Santiniketan.
My classmate Santosh Majumdar and myself became restive.
Every morning we joined in a wandering choir led by my
nephew Dinendranath and Ajit Chakravarty singing Swadeshi
songs in the neighbouring villages and making collections for the
National Fund. Occasionally we went into the town to preach
boycott of British goods. The victory won by Japan over Russia
in 1905 gave an added impetus to the Swadeshi movement. On
the day the Treaty was signed we lit a big bonfire in the middle
of our football field and sang songs all night long to celebrate
the awakening of Asia. Father had brought a ju-jutsu expert
from Japan. We took lessons from him in order to prepare our-
selves to fight the British ! Had not the spirit and training of
judo helped the Japanese to win the war ?

Quite early the movement split up into two sections — there
were those who believed in peaceful methods and others, the
Extremists, more often called the Terrorists, who wanted to
drive out the British by bringing about a violent revolution.

For a proper understanding of the movement we must not
ignore the part played by a group of intellectuals. The ground
was undoubtedly prepared by them although most of them never
sought the limelight. Even now very few realize the great in-
fluence they exerted on the youth of the day and how they fired
their patriotic feelings. Trying to recall their names, those that
come uppermost to my mind in this connection are curiously
not those of Bengalis, nor even of Indians, but those of two
foreigners — Count Kakuzo Okakura and Sister Nivedita.

Count Okakura came to Calcutta unobtrusively — quite a
stranger to the city. How he came in contact with our family
I do not know, but he made his home with my cousin Surendra-
nath, for whom he conceived a great liking. While staying there

THE SWADESHI MOVEMENT

59

he soon got acquainted with the leaders of society. When he
wrote his book Ideals of the East it came as a revelation to our
people. The opening sentence, ‘Asia is one. The Himalayas
divide only to accentuate two mighty civilizations, the Chinese
with its communism of Confucius and India with its individua-
lism of the Vedas’, stirred the inmost depths of our minds.
He found congenial friends not only in members of our family
but persons like Jagadish Chandra Bose, Sister Nivedita, Bipin
Chandra Pal and some of the leaders of the Extremist group.
Much has been written and we all know the result of the impact
of the British occupation on the development of the life of
Bengal, but very few realize the deep influence that the contact
with the wonderful personality of this Japanese sage had on
the recent history of this province. He came at a critical period,
when the reaction against Westernization had barely started.
Through his conversations and writings he inspired the people
to regain confidence in their own civilization and to believe in
the great contribution that Asia cOuld still make to world cul-
ture. This brought about a silent revolution and orientated the
minds of the intellectuals in Bengal towards a healthy nationa-
lism which gradually penetrated the whole of India.

Sister Nivedita, the devoted follower of Swami Vivekananda,
was of Irish birth. She had the zeal of a convert and was more
of an Indian than any native-born. Inspired by the patriotic
feelings of her guru the Irish blood in her did not let her remain
passive. Her dynamic personality drove her to become a torch-
bearer of the cause of India’s freedom and her rehabilitation in
spiritual and cultural status. Her association with Swami
Vivekananda and the Ramakrishna Mission gave her ample
opportunity to come in contact not only with persons of emi-
nence but with a large number of young men. In the responsive
minds of these she was able to kindle the fire of patriotism and
a spirit of adventure.

In 1905 while I was spending a holiday at Giridih with Santosh
Majumdar I was drawn into the thick of the movement. We had
as our neighbours Monoranjan Guha Thakurta, a well-known
political leader, and V. Roy, an idealist with unbounded enthu-
siasm for all good causes. Every morning a few of us would go
about the town singing patriotic songs. In the evenings a larger
party would be formed to canvass the shopkeepers to give up

60

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

selling British goods and at the end there would be a bonfire of
bundles of Manchester-made cloth that we had forced the shops
to part with. One day we were asked to meet the barrister, P.
Mitter, who had come up from Calcutta and was putting up at
the Dak Bungalow. He told us about the Anusilan Samiti and
how the Terrorist party was organising an underground move-
ment and making secret preparations for getting rid of the British
and freeing our country from the foreign rule. It thrilled us to
hear him talk such sedition so openly. We were drawn to him
because we felt flattered that he had taken us into his confi-
dence. Before he left we gave him our promise that we would
join the Anusilan Samiti as soon as we went to Calcutta.

This was a time — such periods of exhilaration and activity
come rarely in the history of a nation — when all sorts of plans
were made on the spur of the moment with dozens of young
men ready to carry them out. I remember how Bipin Chandra
Pal, Sakharam Ganesh Deuskar, Ramendra Sundar Trivedi,
Hem Chandra Mullick, Satish Chandra Mukherji and others
would often turn up in the middle of the night and hold secret
conferences with Father and Gaganendranath about some wild
project. All sorts of rumours would spread like wild-fire one
moment to be replaced by others of a more thrilling nature.

Although Father helped the movement forward with his
lectures and writings (especially his patriotic songs), his mind
was ever active in thinking how the enthusiasm of the people
could be canalized in constructive work. In a paper — ‘Swadeshi
Samaj’ — which he read to a large Calcutta audience at the
Minerva Theatre about this time he outlined a Comprehensive
programme for the re-organisation of rural Bengal on the basis
of self-help and the revival of indigenous industries.

One morning — it was a bright but chilly morning in
November — we were out walking across a coppice of sal trees.
The grass was still wet with dew, the drops hung glistening like
crystals as the slanting rays of the sun fell on them. Father was
in an exhilarated mood and kept humming a tune when suddenly
he began to talk of the need for proper education in our country.
Jatin Bose, the son-in-law of his friend Akshoy Chaudhury, was
with us. Father went on telling him that the Calcutta University
was unable to give our young men the education that they
needed. On coming back to our bungalow the conversation

THE SWADESHI MOVEMENT

61

continued on the same subject at the breakfast table. On a
sudden impulse Father asked himself : Should we not have our
own national university ? Thereafter he grew restless. By the
evening he had left for Calcutta with the purpose of exploring
the ground for founding a national university. He met with a
ready response and within a few weeks the National Council
of Education came into existence. Father undertook to draft
the syllabus of studies and other details for the institution to
be started under the Council. In this way the beginnings of the
Jadavpur University were laid. Father was, however, disillu-
sioned after one or two meetings of the Council when he found
that the members were more interested in establishing a rival
to the Calcutta University, with perhaps a bias towards technical
education, than in breaking away from the traditions and con-
ventions of the code of education established by the British in
India and boldly adopting a system Indian in character but
suited to modern conditions. He ceased to attend any further
meetings.

Father took an effective part in the agitation that followed
the partition of Bengal. It almost appeared as if one day he
emerged out of his seclusion to become overnight the high priest
of Indian nationalism. In songs and poems and in trenchant
addresses on the public platforms he bitterly attacked Curzon’s
policy of divide and rule. At the same time he made a power-
ful appeal to the people to stand together — self-respecting and
self-reliant. He gave a new orientation to the traditional cere-
mony of Rakhi-bandhan and under his inspiration the wrist-
band of coloured thread became the symbol of the undying
unity of Bengal. On the day of Rakhi-bandhan he headed a
huge procession through the streets of the city, singing the songs

Bidhir badhan kdtbe tumi emcm saktiman...

Art thou so mighty that you wish to cut this

fate-forged bond...

and Bangldr mciti, Bdnglar jal...

Let the earth and the water

the air and fruits of my country be
sweet, my God.

Let the lives and hearts of sons

and daughters of my country
be one, my God.

62

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Unprecedented scenes of patriotic emotion were witnessed on
this day. In the afternoon a big crowd had gathered in the
spacious courtyard of Pashupati Bose’s house at Baghbazar.
Father appealed to the people to raise a fund to be called the
National Fund for building a People’s Hall and carrying on the
national movement. More than Rs. 50,000 was collected on the
spot.

It became apparent to Father, however, that he could not
approve of the turn the political leaders were trying to give to
the Swadeshi movement. In all his associations with political
movements from the Swadeshi movement of 1905-6 to the Non-
Cooperation movement of 1921 he constantly raised his solitary
voice reiterating his belief in a constructive programme. People
often wonder why he should have identified himself and even
taken a leading part in the Swadeshi movement and then
suddenly dissociated himself from its activities.

I think that was mainly because the genius in him was funda-
mentally creative in its character. It was impossible for him to
accept what he called ‘the passion for rejection’ as an ideal. In
one of his letters to C. F. Andrews in March, 1921 he has
recounted a very significant incident :

I remember the day, during the Swadeshi movement in Bengal,
when a crowd of young students came to see me in the first
floor of our ‘Vichitra’ house. They said to me that if I would
order them to leave their schools and colleges they would ins-
tantly obey. I was emphatic in my refusal to do so, and they
went away angry, doubting the sincerity of my love for my
motherland. And yet long before this popular ebullition of ex-
citement, I myself had given a thousand rupees, when I had
not five rupees to call my own, to open a Swadeshi store and
courted banter and bankruptcy.

The reason for my refusal to advise those students to leave
their school was because the anarchy of emptiness never tempts
me, even when it is resorted to as a temporary measure. I am
frightened at an abstraction which is ready to ignore living
reality. These students were no mere phantoms to me.

For a similar reason he regarded the idea of non-cooperation
also as ‘political asceticism’ and failed to reconcile himself to
the negative expressions of the contemporary movement in
India. ‘Our students’. Father wrote in the same letter from which
I have quoted above, ‘are bringing their offering of sacrifices to

THE SWADESHI MOVEMENT

6 *

what ? Not to a fuller education, but to non-education.’

Earlier, in 1920, he had written in words more positive and
emphatic :

I find our countrymen are furiously excited about Non-
cooperation. It will grow into something like our Swadeshi
movement in Bengal. Such an emotional outbreak should have
been taken advantage of in starting independent organizations
all over India for serving our country.

Let Mahatma Gandhi be the true leader in this ; let him send
his call for positive service, ask for homage in sacrifice, which
has its end in love and creation. I shall be willing to sit at his
feet and do his bidding if he commands me to cooperate with
my countrymen in service and love. I refuse to waste my man-
hood in lighting fires of anger and spreading it from house to
house.

But perhaps he explained his position best in the following
words written to C. F. Andrews from New York in January*

1921 :

Swadeshi, swarajism, ordinarily produce intense excitement in
the minds of my countrymen, because they carry in them some
fervour of passion generated by the exclusiveness of their rage.
It cannot be said that I am untouched by this heat and move-
ment. But somehow, by my temperament as a poet, I am incapa-
ble of accepting these objects as final. They claim from us a
great deal more than is their due. After a certain point is
reached, I find myself obliged to separate myself from my own
people, with whom I have been working, and my soul cries
out : The complete man must never be sacrificed to the patriotic
man, or even to the merely moral man.

To me humanity is rich and large and many-sided.

Father’s faith in the creative nationalism of India steadily
grew and developed into the larger ideal of a cultural co-
operation among the peoples of the East and the West, which
he chose to call the ideal of Visva-Bharati. On his return from
Europe in 1921 he finally dedicated himself to the multifarious
creative and constructive activities of the institutions that he had
organized at Santiniketan and Sriniketan, which, being inter-
national in their character and outlook, were, as Mahatma
Gandhi had once aptly put it, ‘truly national’.

So, there came the inevitable parting of the ways. Father’s
withdrawal from the political arena was as complete as un-

64

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

obtrusive. Only some poems of his Kheya gave expression to
his feelings. There was, however, no lack of activity in his retire-
ment. His programme of constructive nationalism led him a
few years later to Sriniketan. In the meantime he fell back
on his own resources. He had his own estates as an experi-
mental ground. There he sent a group of workers whom he had
trained to organize the villages on a plan outlined by him. He
thought that in order to resuscitate rural life, agriculture, which
is the basic economic resource of the people, must be improved.
He, therefore, desired that Santosh and I must go abroad to
get technical training in agriculture and animal husbandry so
that after our return we could help him.

Outward Bound

Just then an opportunity came. An association had been formed
to help students to go to foreign countries to study science and
industry. Father heard that the first batch of students would be
sailing for Japan and the U.S.A. very soon. He asked us to get
ready to join this party. We were to go on to the U.S.A. and
study in a University which provided training in agriculture.

Thus in the month of April, 1906, a group of sixteen young
men from Bengal ventured forth in quest of education in a
cargo boat bound for the Far East. Their only resources were a
concession passage provided by a benevolent society and a
bunch of introduction letters. But the lack of material resources
did not in any way cool the wild ardour and reckless spirit of
this group, fresh from the political battleground of the Swadeshi
movement. Most of them wanted to acquire the technical know-
ledge and skill needed for modern industry and aspired to
revive trade and commerce in India. 1 They had neither money
nor preliminary training and their ignorance of the foreign
countries whither they were bound was colossal. As a young
boy of eighteen I did not find the company uncongenial though
strange and so utterly different from what we had been used to
at Santiniketan.

Drifting from port to port along the coast of Malay and
'China we managed to reach Japan after about five weeks. Our
admiration for Japan in those days was boundless. We looked
upon every Japanese as a hero. Had they not helped to kill the
spectre of the ‘foreign devil’ in the Orient for good ? Therefore
we were overjoyed to arrive in Japan at the moment when they
were celebrating their victory, I had a vivid recollection of how

1 A good many of them became the heads of big industrial concerns

later on.

66

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

we had celebrated the victory of Japan over the Russians a few
weeks ago in Santiniketan. We were conscious of the epoch-
making character of this victory for Asia and readily joined in
the round of festivities held in Tokyo. All the parks and public
squares were tastefully decorated with piles of guns and ammuni-
tion captured from the enemy. Every day we would walk round
and round these places with awe and veneration. Our regard for
the Japanese rose to a still higher degree when we found that on
tram-cars and other public conveyances the people, in particular
women and old men, would leave their seats to make room for
us, all the time making deep obeisances, because we hailed from
the country of Buddha’s birth. We might have expected arro-
gance after such a military victory but not this touching reve-
rence for a spiritual ideal and it confirmed our faith in the
unity of Asia, so nobly preached by the Japanese writer, Kakuzo
Okakura.

Most of my companions thought they had come far enough
from home, and their adventures ended on reaching Japan. But
after many an amusing attempt to get passed by the American
authorities, the two of us who had come from Santiniketan
managed to get steerage passages on an American Pacific liner.
The American laws allowed only a small percentage of immi-
grants from Asia to land on the western coast. The poor doctor
in charge of emigration had therefore to find some excuse for
rejecting the others. After having been thus refused on the plea
of an eye disease, I went to consult a Japanese specialist. On
learning the reason for my visit he laughed aloud, and said he
would give me a prescription not for treatment but for fooling
the American doctor. Tt was nothing but a problem of mathe-
matics. He asked me to appear before the doctor every day —
the man could not possibly remember all the faces as he had to
examine thousands every day — and it was only a question of
luck how soon I would get included in the ten per cent quota.

I was indeed lucky to get approved on the third day.

A third class passage in the steerage was an experience worth
having in those days. We were herded together, twenty-eight
in a cabin, lined with five tiers of bunks. This cabin also served
as the dining-room. The congestion, the filth and the wretched
food that was supplied, defy description. But the worst torture
that we suffered during our seventeen days’ passage across the

MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE U.S.A.

67

Pacific was the type of American men and women (there was no
segregation of the sexes) whom we had to associate with. We
had a few Japanese fellow-passengers also. One day a Japanese
had inadvertently occupied the usual seat of an American at
the dining-table. The giant of a fellow not only abused the dimi-
nutive Japanese in the filthiest language but pulled out a knife
and showed fight. Our amour propre was terribly hurt when
instead of standing up to it the Japanese left the room. In a
few moments, however, he was back with a contingent of his
fellow-countrymen and announced that now that they were
equal in number to the Yankees, they were prepared to fight.
The honour of Asia was thus saved.

My First Glimpse of the U.S.A.

On the second day we went up to the tiny deck alloted to us
to get a breath of fresh air. But the supercilious way in which
the first class passengers looked down upon this sorry lot of
humanity huddled together was more than we could bear and
we hastened back to our hovel to nurse our wounded pride.
During the remaining days never once did we attempt to go
up again. It was a godsend that I had the collected edition of
my father’s works, edited by Prof. Mohit Chandra Sen and
published shortly before we sailed. By the time the voyage
ended we had got almost every line by heart. We hardly knew
when we had stopped at Honolulu, as, on account of an epide-
mic in the islands, the passengers were not allowed to go ashore.
A great many days after, we guessed from the conduct of our
fellow-passengers that the end of the voyage was in sight. Trust-
ing that at last the agony was over, one evening we packed our
things and lay down but hardly had any sleep for the excite-
ment of arriving at San Francisco the next morning. While it
was still dark we crept up on deck and kept our eyes glued to
the horizon towards which the boat was moving. A beautiful
dawn broke with a fantail of such brilliant colours as only the
Pacific can boast of. We soon noticed that every officer had his
binocular steadily pointed shoreward. An ominous silence
hovered over the ship. Whisperings and nodding of heads; then
more binoculars brought out. Another long spell of silence.
Those of us on deck became nervous and suspicious. With a

68

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

lurch the boat turned round. It was then that we saw what had
seemed a mystery a few moments ago : the charred remains of
a few skyscrapers and the thick black clouds of smoke slowly
spreading out along the horizon in long serpentine coils and
smirching the brilliant sky with their foulness. The boat stopped
before the Golden Gate — no longer the golden gate leading to
the Queen of Cities, but the gate leading to hell if any hell on
earth can be imagined. Where the city had stood there were now
heaped ruins, charred corpses and bewildered and famished
animals roving about on roads twisted out of shape. Thus we
learnt of the great earthquake and the fire that had devastated
the city, and a shiver of horror ran through the boat. In those
days the wireless had not been invented and we had no previous
warning of the disaster. This was the welcome we received from
America, two kids hugging to our breasts a solitary letter of
introduction to somebody at Berkeley, which had been razed
to the dust during the previous night.

The trains were busy transporting the fleeing population of
the ruined city to safer places inland. The captain allowed us to
stay on the boat for three days after which, standing long hours
in a queue, we managed to get two berths on a train bound for
Chicago. Somebody had told us that there was a good agricul-
tural college at the University of Illinois. Chicago being in the
state of Illinois, we thought the university could not be too far
from it. When the train started T found the upper berth was
occupied by an injured lady. During the night she died and was
taken away. In the morning while going across the mountains
we struck a blizzard and the train was snow-bound. The passen-
gers got out and amused themselves playing snowballs until
after some hours the driver whistled to us to come back. An
ice-breaker engine had come to the rescue and cleared the tracks.

At Chicago we enquired about the location of the State
University and handed over to the telegraph girl a message
addressed to the Secretary of the Y.M.C.A. requesting him
kindly to meet two students from India arriving that day. We
congratulated ourselves on our brain-wave. At least there would
be somebody to receive us. There ought to be a Y.M.C.A. in
the place and it must have a Secretary. But alas, we found no
one who could possibly have any remote connection with the
organization at the station at Champaign. After a few days

COSMOPOLITAN CLUB

69

when we did meet the Secretary we discovered that the telegram
was delivered to him but the message was changed to read ‘Two
students from Indiana’. The girl at the telegraph office had
made the correction herself doubting the existence of any place
called India. Indiana being a neighbouring State the Secretary
had not bothered about giving a reception to the two students
at the station.

Cosmopolitan Club

The United States in 1906 cared little for the outside world.
We found in our University just a handful of foreign students
and these were mostly from the Philippines and Mexico. All
of them felt ill at ease — their American fellow students being
either too inquisitive or too indifferent.

I tried to get the few foreigners together and started a cosmo-
politan club. Fortunately we were able to secure the sympathy
of some of our professors without whose help it would have
been impossible for us to obtain a footing or any kind of status
in the University. The one on whom we came to rely most
was Dr. A. R. Seymour, Professor of the Romance languages.
He not only helped the Cosmopolitan Club to get firmly estab-
lished at the University — but all the foreign students whatever
their nationality found a genuine friend in him. To me his
house in Nevada Street became a real home. Mrs. Seymour’s
motherly affection, when I was in most need of it, has remained
a bright spot in an otherwise dull existence during the three
years of my stay at this mid-west University. I used to go and
chat with her whilst she washed dishes, very often lending a
hand heedless of her warnings that glass and chinaware were
prone to be somewhat fragile. During leisure hours she would
listen to my readings from translations of the Indian classics.
In return she would sometimes favour me with readings of poems
she had herself composed. Years later when Father came to
spend a few months at Urbana while I was working for my
doctorate — every evening he would go to the Seymours’ house
and read to them the essays contained in Sadhana which he
was then writing. There was always a warm corner ready for
him in their sitting room. My friendship with the Seymours did
not cease with my leaving the University. I still correspond with

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ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Mrs. Seymour whose affection and friendship for me through
half a century remain a most prized possession.

While on the topic of the Cosmopolitan Club, let me share
with my readers a recent letter (July 8, 1956) I have received
from Mrs. Seymour.

Do you remember a youthful student from India at Illinois
saying “Auf Wiedersehen” in 1909 at the last banquet of the
year of the Cosmopolitan Club ? In Mr. Seymour’s files I have
discovered letters, papers, programs which would furnish
material for an Early History of the Cosmopolitan Club at the
the University of Illinois. Among them is this program of the
Banquet. I am reminded of your enthusiasm for the Club, your
devotion and solicitude for its welfare and progress. You knew
of the struggle to get it started right — with a Club House, a
dedicated membership. You may not have realized, however,
what a struggle the members had after you left.

To resume our story : within a year the membership of the
Cosmopolitan Club increased considerably and I was elected
President.

The movement in the meantime had spread to a number of
other universities in the United States and I had to consider
bringing them under a federation, which was afterwards named
the Association of International Clubs. Before I left we were
negotiating with a similar movement in Europe called the Corda
Fraters. These Cosmopolitan or International Clubs have come
to be a feature in the American Universities. My friend Leonard
Elmhirst, when he was a student at Cornell, was able to get a
handsome donation from Mrs. Dorothy Straight to build a
Club House at the University in memory of her first husband.
It is a magnificent building functioning as the centre for many
social and educational activities of the University.

The general outlook of the students — I can speak only for the
period I was there — was extremely narrow and parochial in
this Middle West University. There was nothing of the freedom
of mind and spirit of adventure which is generally associated
with Universities. It seemed strange to us that the University
should be considered a congenial ground for the propaganda of
missionaries and even evangelists. Once I was horrified to wit-
ness the exploits of the evangelist Billy Sunday, notorious for
his flamboyant methods and platform antics, at a meeting largely

HOMEWARD BOUND

71

attended by students. Next day, after I had written a mild pro-
test which the editor surprisingly printed in the daily newspaper
of the University, the IHini, I was assailed from all quarters.
When it was getting too hot for me and I was thinking of leav-
ing the University, the paper published an editorial strongly
supporting my views. This biting criticism of the attitude of the
student community was written by a senior student — an assis-
tant editor of the Illini by the name of Carl Van Doren. I was
immensely pleased to get this unexpected support from a fellow
student quite unknown to me. Long afterwards I was delighted
to find that Carl Van Doren had become one of the foremost
literary critics in America.

Homeward Bound

By the summer of 1909 I had finished my studies at the Univer-
sity of Illinois and on my way home spent a few months in
Europe. In London I had the unique opportunity of staying
with Surendranath Banerjea Jn a flat in Clement’s Inn. As far
as I remember he had come there in connection with a Press
Conference as a representative of his newspaper the Bengalee.
But his time was mostly taken up in meeting political leaders
and addressing meetings to interest the British people in India.
People of all shades of politics, especially those belonging to the
Liberal Party, constantly visited him. Sir Henry Cotton’s son,
H. E. A. Cotton, attached himself to Surendranath and acted
as his secretary. The visitor that impressed me most was the
renowned editor of the Review of Reviews , W. T. Stead. He
belonged to that band of liberal-minded humanitarians that
strangely enough England produced at the time when she was
the worst oppressor of the weak and down-trodden nations of
the world. I admired him just as much as H. W. Nevinson
whom I met many years later.

Surendranath received ovations wherever he spoke. I especially
remember the dinner party given at the Westminster Hotel by
the National Liberal Club. Surendranath was at his best when
he replied to the address of welcome that evening. Some English
people sitting close to me whispered that such eloquence expres-
sed in such faultless English had never been heard in England
since the time of Burke. He was a born orator. But he took

72

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

great pains in preparing his speeches. I often heard him rehear-
sing in his room in a loud voice speeches that had to be deli-
vered the next day. Surendranath was methodical. He started
the morning with vigorous dumb-bell exercises and then had an
enormous breakfast. Very often my friend Kedamath Das Gupta,
who volunteered to look after him in London, and I would have
to go out to an A.B.C. Restaurant to appease our hunger as there
would be nothing left on the table of the three breakfasts ordered !

Many years later in 1917 I came in contact with Surendranath
in Calcutta under rather unhappy circumstances. The Congress
was to be held in Calcutta and people wanted to show their
gratitude to Mrs. Annie Besant for the suffering she had under-
taken for the cause of the Indian National Movement. When
her name was proposed for the post of President, Surendranath
violently opposed it as his conservative feelings could not
tolerate the idea of a woman with extremist views presiding
over the affairs of the Congress.

Father warmly supported her candidature and was persuaded
to accept the Chairmanship of the Reception Committee in
opposition to the nominee of the old guards. When the contro-
versy was resolved with the acceptance of Mrs. Besant as the
President Father stepped down. He attended the Congress session
on the first day. There is a painting by Gaganendranath of
Father reciting the poem India s Prayer at this meeting. He
was given a tremendous ovation.

Except at the world-famous experiment station at Rothamp-
stead, I could not find much opportunity in England at that
time to improve my knowledge of agricultural science. I went
over to Germany and attended lectures at the University of
Goettingen for a term. Apart from its reputation as a University,
Goettingen is interesting from its association with Prince
Bismarck. He entered the University as a student but the autho-
rities soon discovered that it was impossible for them to enforce
discipline on this unruly young man. When severe punishments
failed to curb his mischievous activities he was told that he
would not be allowed to live within the jurisdiction of the Uni-
versity. The young Bismarck immediately built for himself a
little cottage just across the bridge over the stream that demar-
cated the boundary of the University, an ingenious way indeed
of flouting authority. The same authorities later on not only

SHELIDAH AGAIN

73

carefully preserved this cottage but built a tower on the top of
a hill as a memorial to Bismarck, their most distinguished student.

It was at Goettingen that I had the opportunity of seeing a
duel. I had no idea that duels were still being fought at the
beginning of the twentieth century. I was told that it was quite
common among the students of Germany. Since it was prohi-
bited by law the duels at Goettingen took place in an out-
of-the-way restaurant some distance from the town. The police
conveniently kept their eyes closed. A large hall in a barn-like
structure adjoining the restaurant was set aside for this enter-
tainment. It must have been considered an entertainment indeed,
since there were galleries along the walls for seating the spec-
tators of whom quite a few hundred turned up every week-end
when duels would be held. A thick layer of sawdust was spread
over the ground in the arena where stood a group of several
pairs of duellists, their seconds and a couple of doctors. This
room was reeking with the smell of iodoform and, as I entered,
a duel had just begun. The duellists had chosen broad swords
and were slashing at each other. Presently a portion of the
scalp the size of a rupee flew off the head of one of the com-
batants. The doctors stopped the fight and soaked the head with
disinfectant but no sutures were made. Scars on the face and
head were much prized by the student community. Girls were
attracted by them — the uglier the better. The friend who had
taken me wanted to stay on to witness a few more duels. But
the sight of one was sickening enough for me and I beat a
hasty retreat.

Shelidah Again

Towards the end of 1909 I returned home. The house at
Shelidah was being got ready for me — I was to look after the
estates. I could at the same time have a farm of my own and
carry on agricultural experiments as I pleased. The prospect
could not be better for a young man with plenty of energy.
Hardly had I got home than Father took me out on a tour round
the estates to make me acquainted with the people and teach
me the details of management. It was a novel experience for
me to travel with Father — just the two of us — in a house-boat.
Successive bereavements and particularly the loss of Sami had

74

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

left him very lonely and he naturally tried to pour all his
affection on me as soon as 1 returned home. As we drifted
along through the network of rivers so familiar to both of us,
every evening we sat out on the deck and talked on all sorts
of subjects. I had never talked so freely with Father before this,
and I had to make considerable effort to break the ice. I think
Father must have been hugely amused to hear me prattle and
glibly repeat copybook maxims on agronomy, genetics, evolu-
tion and such subjects as were still fresh in my mind. Most of
the time he would listen patiently but when he did talk he told
me about the social and economic conditions of our rural folk,
the problems of their life and his own experience in dealing
with them. Rarely would he talk on literature, probably think-
ing that my training in the sciences barred me from appreciating
the arts. Father and son never came to a more intimate under-
standing of each other than in this winter of 1910.

I settled down at Shelidah and led the life of a country
gentleman. A farm was laid out, seeds of maize, clover and
alfalfa were imported from America ; discs, harrows and such
modem implements suitable to Indian conditions were intro-
duced. Even a small laboratory was fitted up for soil testing.
The highest compliment was given me by Myron Phelps 1 when
he told me that at Shelidah he had discovered a genuinely
successful American farm.

As I was engaged in this pleasant occupation Father sent for
me and proposed that I should marry Pratima, the niece of my
cousin Gaganendranath. The wedding was celebrated in February,
1910 in Calcutta. This was the first time a widow marriage had
taken place in our family.

A few years of uninterrupted happiness followed. I was kept
busy looking after the business of the estates and the agricul-
tural experiments in the farm while my wife continued with her
studies with the help of Miss. Bourdette, a teacher who had
come from the University of Illinois. This sort of country life
among the peasantry of Bengal which was so pleasant to me
suddenly came to an end when Father sent for me and proposed

1 Myron Phelps, a lawyer from New York, came to visit India about
this time and became popular amongst Indians due to his symphathetic
attitude towards their struggle for freedom.

SHELIDAH AGAIN

75

that I should go to Santiniketan and give whatever help I could
to the school. Father felt that the burden of the Santiniketan
institution was getting too heavy for him. My classmate Santosh
Majumdar was already there and my brother-in-law Nagen
Gangulee was expected back from the U.S.A. any day. All the
three whom my Father had helped to get trained at the Univer-
sity of Illinois were to strengthen the meagre staff of teachers
of his school at Santiniketan. The delightful house at Shelidah
called the ‘Kuthibari’, surrounded by a rose garden and beyond
that the acres of farmland lusciously green during the wet
months and bright yellow with fragrant mustard flowers in the
winter ; the capricious river Padma ever changing its course ;
the house-boat full of pleasant associations of the past ; the one-
armed shikari Chamru — my faithful companion in shooting
expeditions ; — all those things that I loved most were to be left
behind for the barren wastelands of Santiniketan.

Vichitra and the Art Movement in Bengal

A raw youth fresh from a technical college in the corn-belt of
the United States, with no pretensions whatever to aesthetic
sensibility returned home to an atmosphere of literary and artis-
tic endeavour and felt bewildered. He found there no trace of
Bohemian living which might have struck a sympathetic chord
in one hardly weaned from adolescence. Neither was there the
garrulity of artistic parlance and the irresponsible chatter com-
monly associated with the art-worlds of Western capitals with
which he had become familiar en route home through Europe.
A strange experience it was for him to come into intimate con-
tact for the first time with persons who, while living the normal
life of the Indian gentry, were making experiments and creating
forms that were destined to work as a tremendous vital force
in the renaissance of Indian Art.

It was this supreme indifference to the value of their creative
genius which more than anything else surprised me, nurtured
as I had been on the pragmatic philosophy of America. Surprise
gradually grew into wholesome awe as my feet inevitably led
me every morning to the verandah where cousin Abanindra and
his brothers sat working.

To one who had been used for many years to Western ideas
and customs it was a revelation to be drafted into the coterie
of the artist brothers and watch their manner of work and
even more their manner of thinking. Where was their studio ?
Where were the easels ? There sat the three brothers, Gaganen-
dra, Samarendra and Abanindra, on three easy chairs in a long
verandah facing the south, and there they painted, carried on
estate work, entertained visitors and held their court in a truly

VICHITRA AND THE ART MOVEMENT IN BENGAL 77

oriental atmosphere of simplicity and repose. It was here that
the students came (Abanindranath had already retired from the
Art School, but in the East students prefer a master to a
school) and sat discussing problems that were puzzling their
minds or stood behind, silently watching him work. Here also
came friends of oriental art and art-critics to have a look at
the latest drawings and paintings. Dealers would bring old
miniatures, illuminated manuscripts and other priceless objets
(F art , not so often for sale, as for expert opinion and valuation.
Besides these, there were, of course, a medley of visitors from
high officials to petty job seekers and always a group of hangers-
on, who regaled the company with a constant supply of the
latest gossip of the city.

None of these social distractions disturbed their equanimity
or interfered with their work. The brothers, with the exception
of Samarendra — no less an artist but too modest to vie with
his more gifted brothers — sat there each with a long-piped
hookah, a bowl of water on which floated a rose, and a few
simple painting materials beside them. It was in these surround-
ings that I watched in amazement the making of paintings that
have since become famous.

Abanindra had become well-known as an artist before the
eldest brother took up the brush. As head of the family Gaga-
nendra’s youth was more occupied with entertaining and fulfill-
ing the multifarious social duties appertaining to such a position
in a joint-family of the upper classes in India. His spare time
was taken up with photography when it was not requisitioned
for dramatic performances. A bom actor, he had his part
reserved in any new play that was produced in our family.
What made him discover his talent as a painter I am not sure —
perhaps Kakuzo Okakura and some Japanese artist friends
might have inspired him — but about 1910 when I returned
home, painting was still only an occasional hobby with him. He
had not found his metier yet. My father’s Reminiscences was
being published then in the original Bengali, and I was able to
pursuade Gaganendranath to draw a few illustrations for the
book. These are, I believe, the earliest of his drawings to be
reproduced.

It was about this time that the Indian Society of Oriental Art
was started, as a result of the social contacts of Gaganendra

78

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

and Abanindra with Justice Woodroffe, N. Blount, O. C. Gangoly
and other art-lovers. The annual exhibitions consisted entirely
of the prolific productions of the two brothers, and a few selec-
ted paintings of their favourite pupils, Nandalal Bose, Suren
Ganguly, Asit Haidar, Sailen Dey, Kshitin Majumdar and others.
These exhibitions were a great feature of the winter season in
Calcutta and served a most useful purpose as a cultural and
social occasion, not only for that city but for the whole country,
since people from all over India used to flock to the then capital
during the ‘season’. Gaganendranath was the moving spirit be-
hind this organisation and it was the charm of his personality
that drew the elite as well as the crowd to the show. In this
connection, I should not fail to mention Lord Carmichael and,
later on. Lord Ronaldshay (afterwards the Marquess of Zetland),
but for whose enlightened patronage of Indian Art, the Oriental
Art Society could hardly have achieved the position it did. They
not only lent their names to the Society but also persuaded the
Government to loosen the purse-strings on its behalf.

The artist in Gaganendra and Abanindra was not confined
merely to their brush. Their genius covered a wide field. The
family house in which they lived had been furnished and deco-
rated by the preceding generation in the conventional Victorian
style. The artists remodelled the house and started to refurnish
it. The services of a South Indian carpenter, a master of his
craft, were employed to execute the designs made by the artist
brothers. The style of indoor decoration invented by them be-
came quite the fashion later on in Calcutta. But the acme of
there joint efforts was reached in the drawing-room — a magnificent
example of semi-oriental treatment — decorated with the choicest
collection of paintings and Indian art-ware, a room that has
been the envy of connoisseurs from the world over.

The memory of many an unforgettable evening in this room
comes back to my mind. There would be a few lovers of art
and music reclining in meditative poses on spacious divans, with
lights dimmed, listening to the melodious strains of the Veena.
On such memorable evenings I would sit in an obscure corner
and silently watch the company which very often included such
distinguished foreigners as the great traveller and philosopher
Count Keyserling, that artist and friend of all artists William
Rothenstein, the inimitable Pavlova, the great visionary Kakuzo

VICHITRA AND THE ART MOVEMENT IN BENGAL 79

Okakura, the art-critic Ananda Coomaraswamy, the Russian
aristocrat and art collector Golubew, the delightful Karpeles
sisters and that lover of art. Lord Carmichael.

The mention of Lord Carmichael reminds me of the close
friendship that grew up between this high official and my cousin
Gaganendra. Lord Carmichael, who was for years the Governor
of Bengal, left an unfortunate impression in the minds of the
people towards the end of his rule by a series of political blun-
ders. But those who, like my artist cousins, came to know him
intimately could not help respecting him for his genuine under-
standing of art and his enthusiasm for the revival of the artistic
crafts of Bengal. Bengal cannot but remain grateful to him for
helping the revival of the Murshidabad silk industry. The Ben-
gal Home Industries Association was established at his sugges-
tion and with the help of Government funds, which he placed
generously at its disposal. No better person could have been
chosen as Secretary to this Association than Gaganendra. The
success of the sales depot at Hogg Street for a few years was
entirely due to his indefatigable efforts to create an interest in
the beautiful handicrafts of Bengal, which were dying out for
want of patronage.

During this period Gaganendra used to go up to Darjeeling
quite frequently. To these summer visits we owe the magnificent
series of Himalayan sketches. The snowy range had a most
wonderful fascination for him, and his imagination had worked
out an upturned face in the skylines of Kanchenjunga, which
characterise most of the paintings that he did of these majestic
peaks. While in the hills he used to fancy his own adaptation of
the Tibetan robe. Thereafter this gown-like thing became the
distinctive dress of the artist brothers, as well as of my father’s.
Experiments with dress run in the family.

After some time, when I had sufficiently imbibed the artistic
atmosphere in which I found myself, my practical bent of mind
would not remain content until I had canalised all the artistic
talent going to waste (so it seemed to me at the time, thanks
to my American training !) into some sort of an organisation.
Thus came into being the Vichitra Club, which many Calcutta
people will still remember. My cousins ungrudgingly gave their
help. The first meeting was held in the ‘Lalbari’ with a very
distinguished membership, Brajendra Nath Seal presiding. Cousin

80

<m THE EDGES OF TIME

Surendranath had prepared the rules of the Club — if a consti-
tution which provided for no membership, no fees, no obliga-
tions of any kind, could be said to have any rules. Nandalal
Bose had drawn for the club the design of a seal, in which the
name Vichitra was calligraphed in the shape of a rural cottage.
At the end of the meeting my father gave readings from some
of his unpublished works. The gathering dispersed from the
hall upstairs only to meet again in the dining-room below,
where a sumptuous banquet had been spread. The room was
decorated in red and gold and had the appearance of the interior
of a Chinese pagoda. As long as the Club continued to func-
tion, these banquets, on each occasion with a different and novel
scheme of decoration, remained a conspicuous and attractive
feature.

During the nineties Count Okakura had brought with him on
one of his many visits two young artists from Japan. They stayed
behind as the guests of Gaganendra. While they painted, sitting
on the ground, with the silk on which they painted spread before
them, the whole family watched with amazement their masterly
strokes of free-hand drawing and the dexterous use of the
brush. One of these is now the famous leader of the Bijuitsen
School of Painters, Taikan. Gaganendra was influenced by the
Japanese technique as his early works show. It was this love
for Japanese art that many years afterwards induced the Club to
bring out again another Japanese artist, Kampo Arai, in order
to open painting classes under its auspices.

The Vichitra Club had all sorts of activities. During the day
it functioned as an art school with studios where the painters,
Nandalal Bose, Asit Kumar Haidar and Surendranath Kar
worked at their paintings, N. K. Deval modelled figures, Mukul
Dey made etchings, while a few students (my wife Pratima was
one of the earliest) hovered around them. In the evenings the
library was the main attraction. Once a week the studio would
resolved itself into a social club of artists, writers and musicians.
And quite frequently there would be dramatic performances or
musical soirees.

Very soon other activities were added. Collections were made
of the indigenous artistic crafts of the province. A young man
was sent out on a roving mission to collect alpana designs,
' specimens of embroidery, pottery and basketry work from

VICHITRA AND THE ART MOVEMENT IN BENGAL 81

villages. The alpana designs, together with the nursery and
Brata rhymes that Abanindra knew so well, were afterwards
published in book form.

During this period Gaganendra discovered a new medium—
that of caricature — for giving expression to his fund of humour
and satire. The few that found their way into newspapers and
magazines established his popularity at once. The demand for
reproductions helped to create another department of the Vichitra
Club. A second-hand litho press was purchased and the services
of an old Muhammedan printer were enlisted. In the morning
Gaganendra would paint a caricature, the same afternoon would
find him transferring it to stone slabs and then supervising the
printing of the copies. In this way two volumes of reproduc-
tions were published which found a ready sale.

The Vichitra Club closed its doors when the Visva-Bharati
began to claim more and more of our attention, and some of
the artists, like Asit Kumar Haidar and afterwards Nandalal
Bose and Surendranath Kar were called away to Santiniketan
to organise an Art School there (now known as the Kala-
Bhavana). During the few years that the Vichitra Club flouri-
shed, it served as an important social, intellectual and artistic
centre, for Calcutta, and contributed greatly to the cultural life
of Bengal. It owed all its achievements to the three great perso-
nalities — my father, Gaganendra and Abanindra. It set a unique
example of how the combined efforts of a few men of genius
can set tremendous creative forces at work. I have dwelt
mainly on its achievements in the art world but its contribution
to literature was no less. In its weekly gatherings could be
counted almost all the literary men worth mentioning at that
time in Bengal. All important writings from the pen of my
father, Sarat Chandra Chatterji, Pramathanath Chaudhuri and
others were read out here. The Sabuj Patra movement, with its
advocacy for adopting a purer form of the spoken Bengali as
the medium of the language of literature, and freeing it from
undue Sanskrit influence, may be said to have had its birth in
the Vichitra Club.

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ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Dramas and Play-acting

Play-acting had an important place in the social and intellectual
life in our family residence at Jorasanko. My father was bom
in this tradition and started quite early to write dramas and
have them performed by members of the family, usually taking
the leading part himself.

His earliest play produced in this way is Balmiki Pratibha
(The Genius of Valmiki) in 1881 when he was barely twenty.
In the writing and staging of this play his elder brother
Jyotirindranath not only greatly encouraged him but collabora-
ted with him in setting tunes to the songs. The play is an
opera, the first of its kind attempted in this country. In order to
render the music capable of interpreting the characterization and
the movements dramatically, the composers did not mind adap-
ting Western modes and tunes where necessary. From the point
of view of music it was a bold and novel experiment. Although
the opera was composed when the author was yet in his teens
it has since then been staged quite often and is still held in
esteem. Misfortune seems to have attended its first performance
in the month of February 1881 when the stage had been set up
on the roof of the Jorasanko house. A storm made a clean
sweep of the whole bamboo structure. The performance, never-
theless, took place and Bankim Chandra Chatterji, the celebra-
ted Bengali novelist, who happened to be present, referred to it
in high terms in the pages of the Bangadarsan . Later on it was
performed in the courtyard of our house in the presence of
Lady Lansdowne. The cast, drawn from our own family, were
nearly all accomplished musicians and some of them no mean
actors. The performance proved a success, the novelty of its
form and music giving a pleasant surprise to the elite of the
then capital who had been invited to witness it. The only evi-
dence of this performance we now have are two photographs of
one of the scenes which have become fairly familiar to the pub-
lic, having been reproduced in Father’s collected works.

Mayor Kheld (Sport of Illusion) is the only other opera that
Father has composed. This was published in book form in 1888.
It is perhaps more original than Balmiki Pratibha whose theme
is taken from the Ramayana and the music of which shows

DRAMAS AND PLAY-ACTING

83

foreign influence. Mdydr Kheld was written at the request of
Mrs. P. K. Ray for the benefit of a charitable ladies association
known as the Sakhi Samiti, who performed it themselves for
the first time in Bethune College ; it has since been produced
fairly often.

Then followed Raja-o-Rdni ( The King and the Queen) and
Bisarjan (, Sacrifice ), dramas in the real sense. The first of these
was staged at Birjitalao at the residence of my uncle Satyendra-
nath. My mother was persuaded to take the part of Narayani,
in Raja-o-Rdni , the first and only time she appeared on the stage.

Possibly the premier performance of Bisarjan took place at
49 Park Street, where my uncle Satyendranath had moved from
his previous residence at Birjitalao. It is interesting to note that
His Highness Bir Chandra Manikya, the then Maharaja of
Trippera, who took a keen interest in the play, the theme of
which has reference to an episode in the ancient history of his
own dynasty, was present at this performance. The well-known
photograph of Father as Raghupati bemoaning the death of
Jayasingha seems to have been taken on this occasion. All the
above events occurred before I was bom. I have only a very
vague recollection of the later performance of Bisarjan when it
was produced by the Sangit Samaj in its club house at Corn-
wallis Street.

Raja-o-Rdni has the distinction of being a much-performed
and much-transformed play, both in public and private, inas-
much as it has been produced under the three distinct names
and forms of Raja-o-Rdni, Bhairaber Boli and Tapati. Akshoy
Mazumdar, of comic fame, the stalwart of many a comedy and
the first and foremost robber in Bdlmiki-Fratibhd just missed
turning pathos into bathos in a specially moving scene of Raja-
o-Rdni by his usual comical grimaces, and yet his one grievance
was that he had never been given the tragic part he could have
done justice to !

Speaking of acting and singing, it is difficult not to recall
the poetic and pathetic figure of my cousin Abhi, who acted
superbly and sang so sweetly in Mdydr Kheld, and died so
young and full of prdmise.

Unfortunately, I have to rely on hearsay in these matters, as
I do not happen to be old enough to be able to recall any
details regarding the performances of the above four pieces

84

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

except the bare facts already mentioned. My recollection goes
back only to the early days of the Asrama, when Father began
to write plays suitable for being staged by the teachers and
students of Santiniketan. They are therefore a class by them-
selves, a distinct departure from his previous dramas, which
were romantic and psychological in treatment. The three plays —
Sdradotsab , Achaldyatan and Phdlguni — may be classified as
belonging to the Santiniketan series. Apart from their intrinsic
value and distinctive flavour, they have an added interest inas-
much as they form a link between the classical series ( Rajd-o -
Rani and Bisarjan ) and the allegorical if not mystic series of
dramas that followed — Dak-ghar, Raja , Tapati, etc. Although in
the Santiniketan series of plays the theme is simple, an allego-
rical treatment of the whole subject has crept in. Another charac-
teristic, bom of necessity, is the complete absence of female
characters in these three plays.

I should think the tradition of play acting at Santiniketan had
its beginning even before Sdradotsab was written, when Bisarjan
was staged by the Asrama in the winter of 1902. We had at
that time neither any stage nor any of the paraphernalia con-
nected with it. But the want of wordly goods was amply com-
pensated for by ardour and enthusiasm. There were very few
students then, so the three of us — Santosh Majumdar, Nayan
Chatterji and myself — had to take some of the leading parts.
But as the rehearsals progressed the teachers got alarmed and
complained to Father that if the project were not dropped at
once there was no chance of our passing the Entrance Examina-
tion which was drawing near. But our joy knew no bounds
when Father turned a deaf ear to their importunities and the
rehearsals continued merrily as before. I may mention here that
such opposition from teachers recurred ever since with mono-
tonous regularity, only to be met with the inevitable fate it
deserved from Father.

The ramshackle shed behind the Library, used as the dining
hall, was selected for the stage and auditorium. Although for
the making of the stage there were only a few rickety bedsteads,
an artist from Calcutta was requisitioned to paint the scenes. He
had a facile brush and could wield it to produce bizarre effects,
not unlike the painted rags used for scenes, the stock-in-trade
of professional touring theatres. The man was something of a

DRAMAS AND PLAY-ACTING

85

character and was universally known by his Bengali initials ‘Ha-
Cha-Ha\ He figured in many a story that went the round of
our Jorasanko houses, and I believe cousin Gaganendranath
drew a caricature of him. He has also figured in one of the
stories in Father’s Galpa-Salpci. But as youngsters, far from be-
ing amused, we were duly impressed by his florid art and got
busy setting up the stage. The cots were hauled in from the
dormitory and Ha-Cha-Ha’s backgrounds were solemnly hung
up. Despite the crude setting, the performance was not unsuccess-
ful. It at least helped Father to pick out some promising material
from amongst the amateur actors. Nayan was splendid as
Nakshatramanikya. A very gifted actor, he unfortunately did not
live long enough to help Father in the staging of his later plays.
Jagadananda Babu, who appeared in the role of Raghupati,
was of course marked out immediately as an asset. He was
never spared from any performances as long as he lived.

When Sdradotsab was produced the character of the Asrama
had changed considerably. A new dormitory had been built
with a spacious hall which lent itself so well for performances
that it became known as the Natyaghar. It was not much of
a hall, with its low ceiling ; but it seemed a great improvement
on the dining shed. There were about a hundred students and
the staff too had increased proportionately. So there were lots
of people to choose from and the cast was of a much higher
standard. Kshitimohan Sen, Ajit Chakravarty, Pramatha Bisi
and Tapan Chatterji were valuable additions. Father himself
selected the actors after putting them through hard tests. In those
days he preferred to hold the rehearsals in an open place and
did not mind the whole Asrama looking on and listening. As a
result, the rehearsals of plays and of music were of great edu-
cative value to the whole community and not to the participants
only. I am sure this was the most effective method by which
Father was able to infuse the whole Asrama with the spirit of
art and music. There were no regular classes for the teaching
of music, and yet almost everybody could sing ; music was
in the air as it has ever been since. I do not wish to claim
that everybody could act as well, nevertheless it is true that in
a very short time Father had a large assortment of talent to draw
upon, whenever he wanted to produce a play. It is a pity that
this open-air system of holding rehearsals had to be discarded

86

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

later on when the Asrama lost its homogeneity and visitors be-
came frequent. Our students could no longer profit by watch-
ing the intensive process of training the amateur actors under-
went under Father’s direct guidance.

Saradotsab breathed the spirit of Santiniketan and its setting
idealised the character of its surrounding landscape in the
autumn. Those who took part in the play found such kinship
with the parts they were rendering that they came quite natural
to them. The audience, a few of whom had come from Calcutta
on invitation, were charmed with the spontaneity and joie de
vivre that characterised the acting.

Father felt greatly encouraged by the success of Saradotsab ,
which was followed by Prayaschitta , Raja and Achaldyatan in
rapid succession. It became almost a custom to get up a per-
formance at the end of each term. More and more friends were
attracted from Calcutta to come and see them. It was a prob-
lem to accommodate them. Father used to get quite excited and
would worry himself over the details of the arrangements made
for their comfort.

Prayaschitta is the dramatised version of the novel Bouthdku-
rdinir Hat and as such is one of Father’s earliest productions
and yet, strangely enough, it had never before been put on the
stage. The success of the performance at Santiniketan therefore
greatly pleased him. This perhaps explains the somewhat odd
juxtaposition of this play between Saradotsab and Achaldyatan
which belong to such an entirely different school of drama.
Prayaschitta also happens to be one of those plays which have
been remodelled several times and printed under different names.

When Rdjd was staged in 1911, I was staying at Shelidah
and could not be present. The performance was of a high
order. Father had achieved the most difficult task of getting
together and training a group of artists, who could not only
give him able support but were infused with a common spirit.
Such a happy combination rarely occurs and I know of only the
Moscow Art Theatre and the Irish Theatre movements which
can be compared with it. In both of these enterprises, as at
Santiniketan, it was not the individual artist so much as the
effect produced by the spirit that moved the whole group of actors
which impressed the audience and convinced them of the since-
rity of the effort and gave them complete artistic satisfaction.

DRAMAS AND PLAY-ACTING

87

In Raja the audience was enthralled by the artistic nature of
the performance, but there was some confusion with regard to
the meaning of the play in their minds. As a matter of fact this
feeling prevailed in the literary coteries in Calcutta for several
years, and the impression gathered strength that dramas written
by Father during this period did not conform to the prevailing
literary standards, that their symbolism was confusing and,
above all, that they lacked dramatic movement. Repeated per-
formances, more than anything else, proved to be the best ans-
wer to this criticism.

Achalayatan was staged at Santiniketan in 1914 on the occa-
sion of a reception given to C. F. Andrews. Both Saradotsab and
Achalayatan gave scope not only to grown-up actors but to the
young pupils as well. The natural ease with which these two
groups mingled on the stage was largely due to the healthy rela-
tionship that existed between the teachers and students at Santi-
niketan. Jagadananda Babu again scored a hit as Mahapan-
chak, and so did Dinendranath, who became indispensable not
only as actor but as leader of the choir. Kshitimohan Sen’s
appearance on the stage as Thakurda was greatly appreciated.
Father had taken the part of Acharya. What gave a piquancy
to the occasion was the inclusion of W. W. Pearson amongst the
Sonpangsu crowd. His otherwise perfect Bengali stumbled on the
words Aar khensarir ddl and this produced a ripple of laughter
amongst the audience. Father liked foreigners who came to live
at Santiniketan to share in all our activities. He took special
care to find a place for them in the performances. Therefore it
is not surprising that W. W. Pearson, Leonard Elmhirst, Dr.
and Mrs. Harry Timbres, Haimanti Chakravarty and many
others have appeared on the stage on different occasions.

The first of the series of performances which became a regular
feature in the social and cultural life of Calcutta for many years
was Phdlguni. The play was first staged at Santiniketan soon
after it was written in the spring of 1915. To those who heard
the singing of Ogo dakhin hawd (O South Wind) by two of the
youngest boys of the Asrama, every return of spring will bring
back the memory of their fresh sweet voices. To harmonise with
the spirit of the play, which was different in subject matter and
in technique from the ordinary kind of drama, the stage-settings
and the decor had necessarily to break away from the current

88

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

traditions. In all the three plays — Saradotsab , Achctlayatan and
Phalguni — when staged at Santiniketan painted scenes had been
discarded. Naturalistic settings had been introduced without any
definite attempt at artistry. Phalguni gave a better scope to
this kind of stage than the other two plays. The setting was an
elaborate garden with real trees, flowers and rustic seats with a
swing thrown in. Draperies came at a later stage, when attempts
to introduce artistic effects became more conscious on the part
of those who took up the responsibility of stage-decoration.

Towards the end of winter in the following year (1916), imme-
diately after Maghotsab, when as usual Father had conducted
the divine service and Santiniketan boys had been taken down
to sing in the choir, it was decided to repeat the performance
of Phalguni in Calcutta. The dire need of helping the famine-
stricken people of Bankura made Father hurry on with the
rehearsals, so that the proceeds of the performance could be
sent to the Relief Committee.

At that time I was staying in Calcutta carrying on the work
of the Vichitra Club, and naturally the management of the
performance fell on my shoulders. Santiniketan was giving a
public performance for the first time. The great responsibility
of such an undertaking, added to my inexperience, made me
extremely nervous, particularly on the first day when the box-
office opened with hardly any appreciable sale of tickets. That
evening I gathered together a bunch of our old boys who were
then scattered in different colleges in Calcutta, and told them to
spread the news to those of their friends who wanted to see the
play that they must get the tickets the first thing next morning.
As a result, there was rush for places on the following day and
every seat was sold, although the prices were unusually high.
On the evening of the performance people paid as much as
Rs. 100/- for standing-room. We were able to send Rs. 8000/-
to the Relief Committee after all the expenses had been paid.
Although all our subsequent public performances have been
well patronised, Phalguni , I believe, still holds the record as far
as box-office returns are concerned.

Father’s creative mind could never find pleasure in repetition.
Invariably he would make alterations and additions to the plays
whenever they were about to be performed. Such modifications
would continue till the last day of the rehearsals and even in

DRAMAS AND PLAY-ACTING

89 '

between successive nights of the performance much to the cons-
ternation of the actors. It would have made a most interesting
collection if all the stage-copies of the plays had been preserved.

It was therefore quite to be expected that Phalguni as staged
in Calcutta would be different from what was performed at
Santiniketan a year back. At the last moment, while the rehear-
sals were still going on, he wrote a prelude called Bairagya -
Sddhan , which required an entirely new set of actors. The rea-
son for writing this piece of introduction was possibly his
apprehension that the public might not readily understand the
significance of the new style of drama he was going to present
to them. It may also have been that he wished to draw upon
the histrionic talents of his nephews Gaganendra, Samarendra
and Abanindranath. The parts seemed to have been specially
designed to suit their talents. What an ornamental and romantic
background this by-play gave to the whole piece !

The stage was set up in the courtyard of our family house.
Nandalal Bose and Surendranath Kar, under the guidance of
Gaganendranath, helped with the scenic representations. With
only a few touches of realism here and there, the setting of the
stage was mainly suggestive — a definite advance on the natura-
listic get-up so far attempted at Santiniketan. The scene that
moved the audience most deeply was the figure of the blind
Baul moving towards the dark cave singing Dhire Bandhugo
Dhire. In 1916 Father still had a resonant voice and as he dis-
appeared behind the scenes, his voice dying away with the last
words, the audience could hardly control themselves. The songs
are the life of this play, and the singing on this occasion was
superb, with Father, Dinendranath, Ajit Chakravarty and the
choir of Santiniketan boys as performers. I do not think i have
ever heard Ajit Chakravarty sing so well as he did that eve-
ning, specially the song Ami jabo nd go Amni Chole. The success
of this performance in Calcutta left no doubt in Father’s mind
as to the standard reached by the Santiniketan school of actors.
Its financial possibilities had also been discovered.

There is a long gap of several years before Phalguni was
followed by any other performance on a public stage by the
Santiniketan party of actors. This was perhaps due to the
demands made upon Father by the Vichitra Club in Calcutta
which had been started about this time, followed by his absence

90

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

in Europe for a long period. In 1917 he was busy rehearsing
the play Ddk-ghar ( The Post Office ), this time not at Santiniketan
but in Calcutta. Santiniketan contributed one of its youngest
students to take the part of Amal ; otherwise most of the
characters were selected from Calcutta and the rehearsals as well
as the performances were held at the Vichitra Hall. The play
Ddk-ghar is almost lyrical in quality, its mystic philosophy lies
concealed in very simple and poetic language. It is short and
the characters are few. No word in it is redundant and not a
sentence without significance. Only true artists and accomplished
actors can do justice to this play. And such a group, all of
whom seemed perfectly fitted for the parts they played, was
luckily found without difficulty. Father naturally chose the parts
of Gaffer Watchman and the Fakir for himself, and Abanindra-
nath took the dual part of Physician and Village Headman,
while Gaganendranath appeared as Madhab, Dinendranath as
the Fakir’s companion and Asit Haidar as the Curd-seller. The
choice of the boy Ashamukul as Amal was providential ; he
seemed to have been bom for that part, The only feminine cha-
racter in the drama — the little playmate of Amal — was acted
with perfection by Abanindranath’s youngest daughter Her last
plaintive call for Amal when he lay dead with the long expec-
ted letter of the Postman in his hands, closed the drama with
a pathos that perhaps the author himself had not dared to con-
ceive possible.

The stage was set up at one end of the Vichitra Hall, leaving
enough room for only about one hundred and fifty persons to
make the audience. The arrangement could not have been better.
Many of the delicate nuances of the play would have been lost
in a less intimate atmosphere. The conception of the stage was
entirely Gaganendranath’s. It was novel and daring. A cottage
with a real thatched roof and bamboo walls was erected by him
on the stage platform. The decorations were simple but artistic
as only the eye of a connoisseur could select and apply with
sure effect.

The performance was meant to be a private show for the
benefit of the members of the Vichitra Club, but it was such a
unique treat and people were so eager to see it that it had to be
repeated several times. After every show when I wanted to pull
•down the stage, a demand was made for another repeat perfor-

DKAMAS AND ^LAY-ACUNU :7i

mance and thus Amal’s three-walled cottage remained a fixture
in the Vichitra Hall for many weeks. I believe the seventh and
last performance was given for the entertainment of the dele-
gates of the Indian National Congress then being held in Calcutta.
After the session of the Congress had concluded all the distin-
guished members including the grand old lady-President, Mrs.
Annie Besant, Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya, Mahatma
Gandhi, and Lokmanya Tilak came to see the play at our house.
From the point of view of dramatic representation, I can un-
hesitatingly say that no other play so far attempted ever gave
such complete satisfaction to the author, the producers, actors
and the audience. The combination of histrionic art and stage-
craft had for once reached an acme of perfection.

Pareshnath

Vichitra held me in Calcutta for a few years until the call
from Santiniketan could not be resisted and I had to go and
settle down there for good. There was a brief interval, how-
ever, when fresh from the social and intellectual activities of
the Vichitra I sought a wholesale change of environment and
occupation. I plunged into a business enterprise, a motor engi-
neering concern, which, true to family tradition, did not prove
a financial success. But as long as it lasted it gave me some
satisfaction in that the business afforded me the pleasure of
indulging in my hobby — motoring. I had a passion for speed
and for trying out new models of cars. The business gave me
plenty of excuse to go on frequent motoring trips. Chotanagpur
became a favourite haunt. This part of the country was still
wild and unspoiled. Its innumerable hills and undulating valleys,
its rivers, which became rushing torrents during the rains and
trickling streams of sparklingly clear water in the dry season,
its extensive Sal and Mohua forests alive with wild animals —
greatly attracted me.

Foolishly wandering about in the dry undulating plains of this
country during one summer, and getting boiled in the process,
we could not help putting on the brakes as the refreshingly
green peak of the Pareshnath hill rose in front of us. This
solitary hill rising suddenly to four thousand feet amidst scatte-
red hillocks, which seem but pygmies in comparison, is an
anomaly for which I do not know if local geologists have a
ready explanation, but certainly it baffles the mind of any tra-
veller who happens to pass within its range. It rises clear above
the surrounding plains to a sharp point with only one break,
an elongated spur tojvards its base. For majestic beauty it can

PARESHNATH

93

hardly be beaten, its solitariness defying any attempt at com-
parison. And yet the proportions are so nicely balanced that
to an unwary wayfarer the top seems within easy reach. At
least it did not deter us from dismounting from the car and,
without any preparation whatsoever, straightway beginning the
climb.

The Jain priest in the dharamshala , where the footpath took
its first leap up through the tropical jungle covering the lower
ridges, must have felt amused at the nonchalant daring of these
tourists, but it did not prevent him from doing a kindly act in
offering us a papaya as large as a water-melon. The gift hardly
provoked a smile of gratitude from the recipients at the time,
and the burden was accepted with the minimum grace deman-
ded by the exigencies of etiquette. His afterthought, and an act
of undoubted piety as it turned out to be, in sending after us
four coolies with a charpoy for my wife, the only lady of the
party, was more appreciated.

Up and up we climbed through the jungle. The papaya was
soon consumed. A few pilgrims hurrying back to reach the
monastery in the valley below before darkness set in, warned
us of the difficulties in store for us. An old woman caught hold
of my hands and with tears in her eyes begged of us to desist
from such a foolhardy adventure. But young blood would listen
to no such warnings. Soon we four, with the coolies, were the
only human species left with the ancient moss-covered Sal trees
towering above our heads, as the sun in a haze of amber-
coloured dust slowly dipped below the horizon in a distant
valley of the Hazaribagh district. As darkness set in, indefinable
noises of the hidden night life of the forest filtered through to
our ears. To drown their fears an occasional cry of ‘Ram, Ram’
from the doolie-bearers would go forth into the empty sky and
not even an echo would be heard to reassure them. Worn out
and subdued in spirit, at last we reached the pilgrims’ rest
house on a narrow ridge beneath the summit. The house was
securely locked. Some dry grass and a few logs kept a fire go-
ing outside in a clearing and we lay down and slept till the
rays of the morning sun mercilessly beat on our drowsy eyelids
and roused us. There we were perched on the top of the world
— but still higher rose the spire of the majble temple of Paresh-
nath, the Saint whom the Jains worship, glittering in the sun.

94

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

We dragged our aching limbs across the long flight of steps
eager to see the riches of the temple hall. We stepped into a
room spotlessly clean, devoid of any gaudiness, dazzling in its
chaste whiteness like a widow after her morning bath, empty
except for a book of sayings of the holy man. Thus we were
left alone in that empty hall in the seclusion of a solitary moun-
tain peak, every stone of which was a mute but irrefutable wit-
ness to man’s ever-ascending spiritual aspiration.

Giridih

The Pareshnath episode had left a lasting impression on my
mind. It was probably the lure of this solitary peak which led
my steps to the neighbouring town of Giridih years later for
spending a long vacation.

Amongst my old letters which a kind friend had copied out
and sent me I found one dealing with this coal and mica town.
As a piece of description with plenty of local colour the follow-
ing extracts might be of some interest :

Giridih
Sept. 1, 1936

My dear Mrs. Seymour,

Our villa is on the edge of a little town quite in the centre of
the mining district of Bihar. A ridge separates the residential
part from the coalfields and the mica mines are further away in
the hills. A turbulent hill stream winds along at the bottom of
the slope on which our house rests and skirting a bare granite
mound is lost to view. Patches of red laterite, barely covered by
grass, intervene* between the hill and the stream. And wherever
the land is broken by water-courses, terraces of young rice-
shades of pale yellow and emerald green — climb down to the
edge of the water. In the distance beyond the river are clumps
of dark green mango trees, arranged as in a park, on a wide
stretch of rolling ground. On this bank at the top of the ridge,
where the ricefields end, not daring to go any higher, is a forest
with tall and slim Sal trees, defying with aristocratic indifference
the vandalism of mean-minded men. I can see some white specks
on the uninviting boulders and rocks — undoubtedly the nimble-
footed cows of the village nestling on the slope of the hill,
vainly trying to pick a few blades of grass and looking despair-
ingly on the lusciously green rice plants below. Right in front of

GIRIDIH

95

me a man with a primitive plough and a pair of patient buffaloes,
is going round and round on a tiny plot which looks hardly
larger than a praying carpet from here. On another terrace which
has just been ploughed a man is sowing seeds, — a typical Millet
composition.

From the verandah I gaze upon this landscape every day — the
sharp bend of the river with the muddy stream passing between
silvery sand-banks thrown up on each side ; the solitary rock
standing in the background like a monument, celebrating no
hero of any sanguine battle but a mere whim of nature ; the
peaceful ricefields descending by easy steps the undulating ground ;
and the stately Sal trees standing there like sentinels on the
watch — but how changeful, never the same any hour of the day*
subtle changes for the eyes only of the patient observer and the
lover of beauty ! A bright morning sun dazzles the eye with the
contrast of brilliant colours in the foreground while the faint
horizon glimmers in the distance. In a moment a passing cloud
completely changes the value of colours and gives an intimate
feeling bringing everything — the hills and the trees and the
river — so close to oneself. A woman with an earthen pot poised
carelessly on her head walks along the zigzag paths to the river-
side, quite unconscious of the interest she creates.

As we are on the fringe of the settlement, we can enjoy all
this. But when we go to see some friends in the heart of the
town we find nothing but brick and mortar houses of all des-
criptions — pigeon-hole, match-box, X’mas-cake-like ugly struc-
tures crowded together neck to neck along narrow lanes sur-
rounded by solid walls, giving an unmistakable appearance of a
big jail to the whole town. And these jail-khanas, we are told,
are the pleasure houses of the worried people of Calcutta seek-
ing refuge in the peace of the countryside !

Another day we go further and penetrate into the business
quarter and the mining area that lies behind the town. Doing
formerly a brisk business in coal and mica there are plenty of
Marwaris, living huddled together in mean-looking quarters with
filth and dirt around them. Land is fairly cheap here but they
are parsimonious of God’s light and air just as they are of more
material objects. Crossing the main railway line which spreads
out its tentacles in every direction wherever a derrick is visible,
we come right into the coal area. Hills and valleys with rivulets
running through them are still there but gone are the Sal forests.
How enchanting the country must have looked then ! The Sal
trees have been replaced by ugly derricks, now mostly abandon-
ed, chimneys belching out smoke and pumps converting every
depression into dirty quagmires. There are not many persons to
be seen here, but, I understand there is a whole population of
nearly ten thousand who never see the sun, sweating below ground
in grime and coal dust during the day time and coming up when

96

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

it is dark only to drown their miserable existence in drink
„,7. e retu f n h ° me w ?th a sigh of relief. Relief ? Yes, but we
wonder why the smiling ricefields against the sombre back-

^ii Sa f ? rest or the fcughing rivulet embracing the
dark rocky hill no longer bring the same joy to our eyes and
soothe the mmd as before.

With Father in London

After the passing away of my mother in 1902 Father took very
little care of his health. He wrote incessantly, very often skip-
ping meals in order to gain more time for literary work. More-
over, at this period, he plunged for a few years into a variety
of public activities, mainly political. Temperamentally he was
unsuited for such work, it jarred on him and eventually brought
on a reaction. Besides these there were the many petty demands
made upon him by the Santiniketan school. The worries of a
growing educational institution taxed not only his time and
energy but his slender financial resources as well. As a result
of this strain, his health began to deteriorate, and in spite of
the legacy of a splendid constitution, it broke down during the
year 1912. Doctors and friends prevailed upon him to take a
long sea-voyage and visit Europe for treatment and an opera-
tion, if necessary.

Passages were obtained on a boat sailing from Calcutta to
London. The evening before the boat sailed there was a party
at Sir Ashutosh Chaudhuri’s palatial residence, where a perfor-
mance of Father’s operatic play Balmiki Pratibha was given.
Preparations had been going on for a long time and Dinendra-
nath had been chosen to play the part of Balmiki. Father, of
course, had to be present. We came back late at night. Instead
of going to bed Father sat down to write letters for the remain-
der of the night. In the early hours of the morning we found
him to our dismay on the verge of collapse. Doctors had to
be hurriedly summoned. All our luggage had been sent on to
the boat the previous evening. A big crowd of friends had
gathered at the Chandpal Ghat jetty to see him off. Their sur-

98

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

prise could well be imagined when the boat left with our be-
longings but the owners were not to be seen.

I believe Father did not relish the idea of having to undertake
a voyage to Europe at the bidding of doctors and resisted in
his own way our attempts to persuade him to do so. This was
not the first and only incident of the kind. His reaction to any
kind of authoritative suggestion took peculiar and sometimes
humorous turns. Many an interesting story might be told by
people who have come up against the quite unexpected streak
of stubbornness in Father’s nature.

After his serious illness the doctors insisted that Father should
take a complete rest and try to improve his health before under-
taking the journey to Europe. Father could think of no better
place for recouping his health and spirit than Shelidah — his
favourite retreat of earlier years. As he was forbidden any strenu-
ous intellectual work, he thought it would be enjoyable to occupy
his time by trying to translate some of his poems into English.
The immediate incentive, if I remember aright, came from en-
couraging remarks made by Ramsay MacDonald, to whom,
during his visit to Santiniketan a few months earlier, translations
of a few stray writings that had appeared in the Modern Review
were shown by Ajit Kumar Chakravarty — then a teacher at
Santiniketan. Previous to this Ananda K. Coomaraswamy and
Jagadish Chandra Bose had also encouraged Father to have his
works translated into English.

Father was very glad to have fhe opportunity of returning to
Shelidah. At the time he did not, of course, realise that this
would be practically his last visit. I think he did pay another
visit many years later, but not for long. However, this time he
went there alone, and had the Kuthibari all to himself. He
would pass the whole day in the tiny study perched on the roof
of the house from where he had an uninterrupted view on one
side, of field after field of mustard in blossom shining like mol-
ten gold and filling the air with its sweet fragrance, and on the
other side, of vast stretches of sand-banks with the silvery water
of the majestic Padma now shrunken into a thin streak. There
was no one to disturb the quiet of such peaceful pastoral sur-
roundings except an occasional visit from a Vaishnavi 1 whom

1 A female devotee belonging to the Vaishnava sect.

WITH FATHER IN LONDON yy

he has immortalized in Sadhana and other writings. The ease
with which this illiterate woman talked about philosophy and
religion and her simple and devout faith moved Father deeply.

This return to the haunt of the best years of his creative life
and the pleasant languor of convalescence stimulated by his con-
versations with the Vaishnavi must have had something to do
with the selection of the poems and also with the manner of
rendering them into English. The English version of Gitanjali is
not, as many suppose it is, a poem for poem translation of the
original Bengali book of that name. The translation draws upon
ten different books although about half the poems are from the
Bengali Gitanjali itself. It was the utter simplicity of the language
in the English translation subtle in its artlessness which, I believe,
moved Yeats so strongly. I have a feeling that the English tran-
slation reflects in some strange way the spirit of those days that
he spent at Shelidah. It is as though the poems were reborn in
another garb ; they were not mere translations.

Father returned from Shelidah somewhat improved in health
and we made another attempt to take him to England. This
time we did succeed and embarked on a P and O boat from
Bombay on May 27, 1912. Although on my way home from the
U.S.A. I had spent some time in Europe I hardly knew the
country and my wife was making her first voyage abroad. So,
we made a very inefficient pair of companions to Father on this
journey. Our responsibilities were made heavier by having to
chaperon a student of Santiniketan going to Harvard for his
education. Fresh from school, his unconventional manners were
a source of much worry and embarrassment to all of us. Shoes
were a constant source of irritation to him — he would very
often cast them off and walk about the deck on bare feet as he
was used to at Santiniketan. Knives and forks to him had much
better utility than for eating. His excitement knew no bounds
when one afternoon while everybody was having a nap he spied
a woman entering Father’s cabin and helping herself to some
mangoes. Knowing that Father was very fond of mangoes we
had brought a basket of Alfonsos and these were kept in his
cabin. The delicious smell coming out of the open door must
have proved too tempting to the lady.

After the usual uninteresting life on a steamer, we found
ourselves one evening in London. Thos. Cook had arranged

100 ON THE EDGES OF TIME

rooms for us in a Bloomsbury hotel. We took the Tube from
Charing Cross station. This was our first experience of under-
ground travelling and it left us completely bewildered. I was
carrying my father’s attache case, which contained among other
papers the manuscript of the English translations later published
as Gitanjali and The Gardener. When on the next day Father
wanted to call on William Rothenstein and asked for the manus-
cript, the leather case was found to be missing. With my heart
in my mouth I hastened to the Left Luggage Office. One can
imagine my relief, when at last I discovered the lost property
there. Since then I have often wondered what shape the course
of events might have taken if the manuscript of Gitanjali had
been lost through my negligence.

We felt stranded and lonely in London, as most foreigners
do on visiting that seemingly inhospitable city for the first time.
We have never during our subsequent extensive travels experi-
enced such a feeling of being complete outcasts in any other
part of the world, as we did in those days, living in the midst
of the teeming millions of this British capital. But London
grows on one with years. We even came to like its outwardly
drab and uninteresting atmosphere in time. The first few weeks,
however, were extremely painful to one so sensitive to his sur-
roundings as Father was. This was not his first visit to England.
As a student he had lived in London. He had also spent a
four-month ‘furlough’ with my second uncle and Loken Palit in
1890. But it was such a long time ago that all associations had
completely faded from his memory and no former acquaintances
could be traced. We hardly knew anybody except Mr. Rothen-
stein, whom Father had met when he was in Calcutta about a
year before. He warmly welcomed us and soon began to intro-
duce Father to artists and literary friends of his. Although an
artist, Rothenstein had a very wide circle of friends amongst
the literary circles in England. He had at one time or another
drawn or painted most of the people that counted in politics,
art, or literature. Moreover, he was a brilliant conversationalist,
which helped to attract intellectuals to him. Father had simply
to mention such names as Yeats, Masefield, H. G. Wells, Stop-
ford Brooke, Hudson, bfevinson, Evelyn Underhill, and in a few
days he would find himself sitting with them over the lunch or
tea-table. Very often Father would be asked to the studio where.

WITH FATHER IN LONDON

101

while Rothenstein painted. Father would talk with his sitters.
This was how he met Colonel Lawrence of Arabia, before the
latter became such a romantic figure. Rothenstein at this time
had received a commission from the Government to paint some
large-size Indian scenes for the House of Commons. As the
principal standing figure in a representation of the Banaras
Ghats, he had selected Kalimohan Ghose from Santiniketan who
was visiting England at the time, and whose profile he greatly
admired.

London was then truly the hub of the intellectual and artistic
life of England and Hampstead Heath a regular colony of
writers and artists. The aftermath of the Victorian period was
still producing men of no mean order. There was an atmosphere
of intellectual virility, artistic endeavour and in general an opti-
mistic outlook. The English people were supposed to be looking
after the welfare of the world and therefore everything seemed
to go well. Political, social and economic problems were faced
with fearless confidence, even with complacency. The world was
theirs, and it was soon to be turned into a paradise. A fantastic
dream, no doubt, and how unreal was soon to be proved, bu(t
yet a dream that moved their best men to sincere and ardent
efforts with an enthusiasm that one could not help admiring.

The historic evening at Rothenstein’s, when Yeats read out
the Gitanjali poems in his musical, ecstatic voice to a choice
group of people like Ernest Rhys, Alice Meynell, Henry Nevin-
son, Ezra Pound, May Sinclair, Charles Trevelyan, C. F. Andrews
and others gatherd in the drawing-room ; the almost painful
silence that followed the recitation ; the flood of appreciative
letters that poured in the next day ; the developments that led
to the publication of the book by the India Society — that beau-
tiful edition which very soon afterwards fetched high prices at
Christie’s ; and the immediate acceptance of Father as one of
the greatest poets of the age by the English public are well-
known. It may, however, be interesting to record here the impres-
sions of C. F. Andrews who wrote :

I walked back along the side of Hampstead Heath with H. W.
Nevinson but spoke very little. I wanted to be alone and think
in silence of the wonder and glory of it all. When I had left
Nevinson I went across the Heath. The night was cloudless and
there was something of the purple of the Indian atmosphere

102 ON THE EDGES OF TIME

about the sky. There all alone I could think of the wonder of it :

On the seashore of endless worlds, children meet

On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.

It was the haunting, haunting melody of the English, so simple,
like all the beautiful sounds of my childhood, that carried me
completely away. I remained out under the sky far into the
night, almost till dawn was breaking.

The room where we were seated looked out upon the myriad
evening lights of the great city of London which lay below... I
sat at the window in the dusk of the long summer evening as
Rabindranath’s poems were read slowly one by one.... I
remember how immeasurably happy I was that night as I went
away. The new wine of Rabindranath’s poetry had intoxicated
me. I had only seen tiny extracts before ; but the recital which
I had heard that evening was the full measure, pure and undilu-
ted. It was an experience something not unlike that of Keats’,
when he came for the first time upon Chapman’s translation of
Homer, —

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken.

Of the many appreciative letters that came to Father immediately
following the reading of his poems by Yeats I am quoting be-
low only one — a letter from the well-known writer Miss May
Sinclair :

4 Edwardes Sqr. Studios
Kensington
July 8, 1912.

Dear Mr. Tagore,

It was impossible for me to say anything to you about your
poems last night, because they are of a kind not easily spoken
about. May I say now that as long as I live, even if I were never
to hear them again, I shall never forget the impression that they
made. It is not only that they have an absolute beauty, a perfec-
tion as poetry, but that they have made present for me forever
the divjne thing that I can only find by flashes and with an
agonizing uncertainty. I don’t know whether it is possible to see
through another’s eyes, I am afraid it is not ; but I am sure that
it is possible to believe through another’s certainty.

There is nothing to compare with what you have done except
the poem of St. John of the Cross : ‘The Dark Night of the
Soul’ and you surpass him and all Christian poets of Mysticism
that I know by that sense of the Absolute, that metaphysical
insight. It, to my mind, Christian mysticism almost completely

WITH FATHER IN LONDON

103

lacks. It deals too much in sensual imagery, it is not sufficiently
austere and subtle — it has not really seen through the illusion of
the world. And therefore its passion is not and cannot be entirely
pure.

At least so it has always seemed to me, and that is why finding
this imperfection in it, it sends me away still unsatisfied.

Now it is satisfaction — this flawless satisfaction — you gave me
last night. You have put into English which is absolutely trans-
parent in its perfection things it is despaired of ever seeing
written in English at all or in any Western language.

I am rejoiced to learn that the Poems are to be published here
in the autumn.

With kind regards,

Sincerely yours.

May Sinclair.

We had in the meantime moved to a boarding-house in South
Kensington kept by two Belgian sisters. We had had enough
of the roast beef, boiled cabbage, Yorkshire pudding and goose-
berry tart, which appear with monotonous regularity in English
hotels. The place was quite near the Indian Students’ Hostel in
Cromwell Road. This gave the opportunity to many of our
students to have easy access to Father. Amongst them were quite
a few who have since made their mark in life, and now hold
important positions. But the one who was the life and
soul of the party — Sukumar Ray — a process engraver by pro-
fession but far better known as a humorist and writer — is no
more.

Besides the Rothensteins in London, there were the Havells.
Mr. Havell had been Principal of the Art School in Calcutta
and the guru of my cousin Abanindranath. After retirement,
although his home was in Denmark, he was living in London
where he had already earned recognition as an authority on
Indian Art. It was mainly through his efforts that the India
Society was founded, and he was, if I am not mistaken, its
first Secretary. Havell’s object in starting the Society was to
assert the claims of Indian Art in England and to win the sup-
port of the India Office in giving employment to Indian artists.
Just then came a unique opportunity. New Delhi was going to
be built. Havell was determined that Indian artists should plan
it according to pure Indian Art traditions and prevent, if possi-
ble, the erection of a hybrid city. He tried to enlist the support

104

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

of the artists and art-critics of England, through the India
Society. But Havell in his enthusiasm for Indian Art had not
taken into account the business instinct of the British people.
Strong forces were arrayed behind Sir Edward Lutyens. In spite
of his admiration for Indian Art, William Rothenstein and his
group went over to the other side and the India Society, as a
result of this defection, became henceforth a subservient organi-
sation of the India Office. Havell in protest severed his connec-
tion with it. No one seemed to mind.

The picturesque figure of Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, promi-
nent in most social gatherings in London during this period,
added to the charm of the artistic — 1 would not say Bohemian —
life of the city. He was much in demand for giving talks — and
he could talk fluently and impressively on any subject dealing
with Art ; but it was not so much his erudition as his tall and
handsome appearance that made him attractive.

William Butler Yeats was another whose striking figure would
never fail to draw the eyes of everybody in any gathering. Even
in a crowd he carried an air of impenetrable aloofness with him
without, however, seeming snobbish or haughty. This gave him
a great distinction. I felt this aloofness when I saw him for the
first time in a drawing-room and dared not approach him. But
soon afterwards I had the opportunity of knowing him rather
well and was charmed by his genial personality. He used to live
in a garret over the shop of a shoemaker in Woburn Place, near
Russell Square. My friend Kalimohan Ghose and I spent many
an evening with Yeats in this quaint retreat, talking about ghosts
and spirits till the long hours of the night. We always carried
back the impression that Yeats lived and had his being in a
world of imagination, a fairy world which was very real to him.
ft was difficult to believe he was a Westerner.

One day we were surprised when Sir Oliver Lodge called at
our South Kensington boarding-house and introduced himself
to Father. It was amusing to me to find this eminent scientist
questioning Father on the belief of re-incarnation prevalent in
rndia. He had given up by that time all his interest in science
and was devoting himself entirely to spiritualism.

One more visitor was Bertrand Russell. He also turned up
suddenly and had to introduce himself since Father had never
met him. He told Father that he had come down from Cam-

WITH FATHER IN LONDON

11D

bridge specially to see him, and then without any further attempt
at conversation abruptly asked him, ‘Tagore, what is Beauty V
The question came so suddenly that Father kept silent for a
minute and then explained his ideas on aesthetics which he
later developed in ‘What is Art’ in his book Creative Unity . I
could not judge whether Father’s exposition satisfied Bertrand
Russell because after listening with rapt attention he left just
as suddenly as he had come.

While Father was constantly meeting new personages, Kali-
mohan Ghose and I divided our leisure hours between the two
poets, Yeats and Ezra Pound. Ezra Pound was unique, a class
by himself. He took the business of poetry seriously and was
proud and conscious of being a poet who had succeeded in cast-
ing away the fetters and conventions of his fellow craftsmen.
There was undoubtedly a good deal of the poseur in him, yet
we could not help liking him. His American nationality, of
which he was not at all proud, perhaps accounted for his naive
simplicity and warm-heartedness. He became devoted to Father,
and looked upon him as a master.

Of all contemporary English writers Father had the most
tender regard for W. H. Hudson. Years ago when my sister and
I could hardly understand English, Father used to read to us
from Hudson’s books of travel. His favourite books were The
Naturalist in La Plata and Green Mansions. Rothenstein shared
his love for Hudson, and it was not difficult to arrange a meet-
ing. We were not present there, but when he came back Father
told us a most moving story about this writer which helped us
to understand the passionate love for nature that characterizes
all his writings. Hudson’s intense love for music led him to
marry an accomplished violinist. He used to be deeply moved
whenever she played to him. The tragedy came when after
marriage his wife refused to touch her violin again. Hudson
was bitterly disappointed, but this did not deter him from nur-
sing his wife after she became an invalid with great tenderness
and devotion for years. The love that was not returned by the
only human being he cared for was deflected with a passionate
intensity towards wild nature, still unspoiled by man. Father’s
admiration for this unusual writer increased considerably after
he came into personal contact with him.

One evening we were all invited to a dinner given by Miss

106

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

May Sinclair. It was a fairly large gathering of well-known
writers. Father was seated next to Bernard Shaw. Conversation
flowed around the table with sparkling brilliance, but to the
surprise of everybody Shaw hardly opened his mouth. Father
had to do all the talking. We were told Shaw had never kept
so silent anywhere before. Our next meeting with him was at
the Queen’s Hall where we went to hear the violinist Heifetz.
At Uhe end of the concert, as we were making our exit through
the jostling crowd, somebody suddenly caught hold of Father
and turning him round quietly announced, ‘Do you remember
me ? I am Bernard Shaw’, and walked away.

The Suffragette Movement was at its height. My wife became
interested in it and attended many of their meetings. One night
she was late in returning from a meeting. We wondered whether
she had also been breaking shop-windows and been marched
off to a police station. When at last she came home, she told us
a story about Shaw which was characteristically Shavian.
Everybody knew that Shaw was a staunch supporter of the
Suffragette Movement. Very early that morning an unknown
person had come to Adelphi Terrace, roused Shaw from his
bed and told him excitedly that he must have £ 100 immediately
to bail out Miss Pankhurst, who had been arrested. The money
was paid without hesitation. When afterwards it was discovered
that the whole thing had been a fraud and that he had been
cheated, Shaw consoled himself by saying, ‘The man, of course,
deserved the money. He has proved that there is at least one
person who is cleverer than Bernard Shaw.’

In Ernest Rhys Father found a genuine friend. Rhys would
quite often walk into our rooms unobtrusively on his way back
from Dents’ and with a broad grin on his heavily bearded face
sit down and talk literature with encyclopaedic knowledge and
discerning judgment. We too would often visit his simple but
beautifully kept cottage in Golders Green, sit sipping sherbet in
the garden, and listen to the piano which he played with much
feeling. Mrs. Rhys was a devoted mother and an amiable hostess
and they had a pair of charming children. Very often the whole
family would gather round Father, and ask him to sing the
Gitanjali songs. They were Welsh, and even after their long
residence in London they had lost none of their racial charac-
teristics. Music is in the blood of the Celtic race, and therefore

IN THE U.S.A.

107

it was not surprising that they could appreciate Father’s songs,
though the music was foreign. A friend of the family — Dr.
Walford Davis, who afterwards became a well-known composer
— used to come sometimes to take down notations of the
Bengali tunes from Father.

Thomas Sturge Moore was a young poet when Father first
met him. Although he never earned a great reputation, and
remained one of the minor poets, he had a wonderful feeling
for words and a keen sense of rhythm. Father very often discus-
sed with him the arrangement and selection of poems in the
volumes that followed Gitanjali. He was not at all like an
Englishman. He looked and thought more like a Frenchman.
His wife translated one of Father’s books into French. 1 Their
unassuming and charming manners made it easy to make
friends with them.

The London season, as far as we were concerned, closed with
a banquet given in the Trocadero Restaurant by a group of
writers and artists led by Yeats. After Yeats had given a read-
ing from Gitanjali — this time before a larger and more repre-
sentative gathering — there were many after-dinner speeches,
mainly felicitations by leaders of different literary groups. While
replying to the toasts Father recited a few unpublished poems,
and at the end when Father sang in Bengali the national song
Vande Mataram everybody rose and remained standing.

In the U.S.A.

The English winter was heralded by dismal foggy days, and in
October we sailed for America, where a fresh and an entirely
different set of experiences awaited Father.

I was able to induce Father to go to my university at Urbana,
Illinois, and spend the winter months there. This, I had thought,
would give me the opportunity to work for my doctorate. We
got a house not far from my college and soon settled down. 1
was happy to see Father start writing immediately. I knew that
as long as he remained busy at his desk he would not think
of moving and I might get a long spell at the University to

1 The Crescent Moon.

108

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

finish my thesis. It is not easy to set up house in America and
my wife who had never been there before had a difficult time.
But she had two persons to help her — Bankim Roy, a former
teacher at Santiniketan, and Somendra Dev Barman, one of our
students. The Seymours were of course a great help.

Father was writing Sadhana . As each chapter was written I
had to get it typed. But since there were constant additions and
alterations typing became an expensive item in our budget. So
I bought a portable machine and did the typing myself. I had
to type and retype each chapter so many times that by the time
I finished I knew almost the whole book by heart. Very often
the pastor of the local Unitarian Church, who as a graduate of
Harvard claimed a broader cultural outlook than most people
of this Middle West university town, asked Father to give read-
ings from these manuscripts to select groups in the Church.
Encouraged by the interest of the people who came to listen.
Father read out all the chapters of Sadhana one by one and
was satisfied that each of them could serve as subject matter
for a separate discourse.

But the backwaters of a provincial place like Urbana could
hardly be expected to hold him long. Father grew restless. I
knew the symptoms too well. He had finished his writing and he
felt the natural urge to communicate what he considered India’s
message to the West. Fortunately an opportunity presented it-
self to Father to address a larger public in the U.S.A. The
Federation of Religious Liberals were holding a Congress at
Rochester and Father was invited to give an address. His lec-
ture on Race Conflict was greatly appreciated. Father met Dr.
Rudolph Eucken, the sage philosopher who had come from
Germany to attend the Congress, and had long and interesting
discussions with him.

Invitations began to pour in now from different universities.
I had to go to Chicago to make the arrangements for a series
of lectures at that University. There I met for the first time
Mrs. William Vaughan Moody, the wife of the poet, who eager-
ly offered her hospitality to Father during his stay at Chicago.
This contact led to a much cherished friendship lasting until
the death of this remarkable woman, whose house was the
refuge of many would-be artists and writers and a great attrac-
tion to all persons of eminence visiting the U.S.A.

father’s foreign tours

109

After Chicago the call came from Harvard and from New
York for a series of lectures. I realised that the time had come
to strike our little camp at Urbana and to give up my post-
graduate studies. Not that I regretted it much.

By the middle of April, 1913 we were back in England from
where we sailed for India on September 4, 1913.

Father's Foreign Tours

Father was an inveterate traveller. Even in his early life he
would not stay at home for long. He had then to satisfy him-
self with moving about within the limits of India, with only
two brief visits to England. The first of these visits took place
long before I was born and the second in 1890 when I was a
child in arms. In most of his subsequent travels to the Euro-
pean continent and once to the United States, my wife and
myself accompanied him. The years of his foreign travels with
us. if I remember aright, are 1912, 1920, 1924, 1926 and 1930. In
1932 he flew to Persia and Mesopotamia with my wife only, as
I was not well enough to accompany them. Besides these tours
in. which we participated he made several voyages to the Far
East and to the two continents of America with other compa-
nions. Neither could we accompany him on his trip to Russia.

The visit to England in 1912 became memorable for the
publication of Gitanjali followed by the award of the Nobel
Prize. The next trip to Europe was taken immediately after the
first World War in 1920. The two years 1920 and 1921 which
we spent travelling in nearly every country on the continent of
Europe and a long winter in the U.S.A. were a most revealing
experience for us and gave us for the first time a true under-
standing of the outside world. The devastating effects of the
war were fresh in the minds of the people and the very founda-
tions of their civilization had received a rude shock. In despera-
tion they were turning again to the East for some light to guide
them in reconstructing their lives. Just then the presence of
Father in their midst was looked upon as a godsend. His message
gave them hope. In England and France people are not usually
carried away by emotion. But even there the love and venera-
tion Father received wherever he went was surprising. In cen-

110

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

tral and northern Europe, the people simply worshipped the
ground he trod upon. In crowded meetings and railway stations
we got used to the sight of people jostling each other to approach
Father in order to touch the hem of his robe. The sale of
his books was phenomenal. In Germany millions of copies were
sold. The bank where the royalties had been accumulating
wanted to know what should be done since the inflation was
rapidly reducing the value of the deposit. By the time we rea-
ched Germany, the millions of marks to the credit of Father
were worth only about ten thousand rupees. Our companion, a
Bombay businessman, advised me not to cash in this paltry
amount, but to buy Bavarian Bonds and wait for future appre-
ciation of the maik. But within a few days the bank again wrote
informing us that the value of the account was now worth
only a few annas, and that the bank was obliged to close the
account. Thus Father was saved the disaster of becoming a
millionaire !

While we were spending a few weeks in the delightful house
of Albert Kahn at Cap Martin in the South of France — a
friend of ours, a French artist, had come back from a trip to
Italy. While walking on the beach of a small fishing village in
the Italian Riviera, she came upon a fisherman sitting in the
shade of a boat drawn upon the sands, watching the nets dry-
ing in front of him and reading a book. Her curiosity aroused,
she enquired what he was reading there in such surroundings.
The man was quite indignant and replied derisively ‘Don’t think
I am reading a trashy romance. Don’t you see it is Tagore’s
The Post Office l 9

An officer of the Indian army told us that while he was
travelling with his company on the continent, their train was
halted at a wayside station and their carriage was loaded with
gifts of flowers and fruit brought by a group of girls and as
the train began to move these girls cried out ‘To the country-
men of Tagore !’ I have been told that Clemenceau sent for the
Comtesse de Noailles to read out to him poems from Gitanfali
on the evening the armistice was declared after the first World
War.

But the most touching is a letter my father received from
the mother of the young poet, Wilfred Owen, after his tragic
death. I quote the letter :

FATHER’S FOREIGN TOURS

111

Shrewsbury.
August 1st 1920 r

Dear Sir Rabindranath,

I have been trying to find courage to write to you ever since
I heard that you were in London — but the desire to tell you
something is finding its way into this letter today. The letter
may never reach you, for I do not know how to address it,
tho’ I feel sure your name upon the envelope will be sufficient
It is nearly two years ago, that my dear eldest son went out to
the War for the last time and the day he said Goodbye to me —
we were looking together across the sun-glorified sea — looking
towards France, with breaking hearts — when he, my poet son,
said those wonderful words of your$ — beginning at ‘When I go
from hence, let this be my parting word’ — and when his pocket
book came back to me — I found these words written in his dear
writing — with your name beneath. Would it be asking too much
of you, to tell me what book I should find the whole poem in ?

My precious boy was killed, one week before the awful fight-
ing was over — the news came to us on Armistice day. A small
book of my son’s War Poems will be published very soon — his
heart was tom with sorrow at the suffering he saw “out there”
and the callousness of the majority at home — the futility of
War — he speaks not of his own sufferings but any one who loved
him can tell from his poems what he had passed through, to be
able to write as he did. He was only 25. Wilfred loved all that
was beautiful, his life was beautiful and of great influence for
good. Our God knew but when he took him “hence” — and I
must not murmur — for I know He is a God of love— and would
have answered my constant prayers — if, to come back to me,
would have been best. So I bow my head and go softly all my
days till we meet again — as we shall do in the Land our Savi-
our went to “prepare” for us. Forgive this longer letter than I
intended to write when I began — I should like you to read my
son’s little book, if you will do us , the honour ? — (Chatto and
Windus are bringing it out in the autumn) — if I may, I should
be proud to send you a copy.

With great respect and admiration

from the Mother of Wilfred Owen —
Susan H. Owen

It was impossible for us not to be moved by such demons-
trations of love and admiration which we also witnessed not
only at the height of father’s fame in the years immediaetly
following the war of 1914-18 but during all the subsequent
tours that were undertaken by him.

112

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

A Travel Diary

I find that I kept rough notes of our visit to Europe in 1920.
Although they were put down in great haste and are by no
means complete I cannot resist the temptation of sharing the
entries with my readers for whatever they are worth :

May 15, 1920

At about 10-30 a.m. after breakfast we quietly left for the
dock. Kshiti Mohan Sen came with us in the car. By noon we
were all on board — but it was nearly five in the afternoon be-
fore the boat sailed. The boat is a large one and very crowded.

May 16

Some distinguished company on board — The Maharaja of
Alwar, the Aga Khan, Sir Currimbhoy, Sir J. Jeejeebhoy, the
Jam Saheb of Nawanagar Ran jit Singh ji (Ranji), and some
others ; otherwise the greater portion of the passengers are un-
interesting. Altogether too many people on board. Enough to
make one feel uncomfortable.

Father seems to enjoy his talks with the Aga Khan and the
Maharaja. Quite frequently the former reads out to him from
Hafiz and then they have discussions on Sufism. The Jam Saheb
too is very genial company.

June 5

From Marseilles to Plymouth it was an uneventful voyage.
We were expecting Kedar Das Gupta to meet us at Plymouth
but it was quite a surprise to see Pearson also waiting for us
at the pier. Rothenstein and family received us at Paddington
and took us over to the Kensington Palace Mansions, where he
had arranged a flat for us. The place is quite comfortable.
Rothenstein came again after dinner. Father had a long chat
with him mostly enquiring after old acquaintances and friends,
and discussing modem conditions in India and England. It
seemed so much like old times — the summer of 1913.

June 6

Pearson is putting up with us. The whole day long we had
visitors. Rothenstein came with his daughters in the morning.
Conversation turned on whether artists, writers and intellectuals

A TRAVEL DIARY

113

who were alive to the weaknesses of the government and resen-
ted its spirit of greed and exploitation should co-operate with it.
Rothenstein evidently favoured co-operation ; he thought the
intellectuals could not very well refuse to do their best, when
they were appealed to by the State to help in the reconstruction
of the country ; that the idea of ‘service’ was so deep-rooted in
modern man, that his salvation lay through it, and that in the
case of artists, specially, they could no longer depend for their
living and the preservation of their art on the patronage of a
few rich individuals ; since more and more the rich would have
less surplus to spend on the arts. The artists therefore must
work for democracy through the State. Father pointed out that
artists, of all persons, must have absolute independence, that it
is not healthy for them to be under any restraint. He mentioned
the Indian Society of Oriental Art of Calcutta — and said that
the very fact of its being under Government patronage was sure
to react and have a baneful effect on the mind and work of the
artists. Rothenstein said that after all it was not so bad for
artists to have limits imposed upon them. It does not really
matter and sometimes it is better that their material should re-
main outside their control. Religion gave such opportunities to
the Italian painters. Modem freedom has had harmful results,
as in the case of the Futurists.

Spent a delightful afternoon with Sir Frank Dyson in the
Observatory at Greenwich. He is such an unassuming person.
The whole place has such a quiet atmosphere that it is wonder-
ful to think that so much work is being carried on with so
little pretension. Sir Frank Dyson has had very distinguished
predecesors, Newton having been the founder of the institution.
The whole place is full of the atmosphere of the continuity of a
great work carried on through generations. Sir Frank showed us
the photographic plate of the last total eclipse of the sun, which
for the first time lent proof to Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.

June 17

The last few days our engagements have been so many and I
have had to go about so much that I "did not have time to
write this diary. Of course we are seeing a lot of the Rothen-
•steins. Father goes there quite frequently, but not so often as
lie used to when he came last time and was living in Hampstead.

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However, he has been able to meet many of his old friends and
acquaintances at Rothenstein’s house.

Father called on Mr. Montagu and Lord Sinha at the India
Office. He told Mr. Montagu that it was not so much the
punishment of Dyer that India asked for, but moral condem-
nation of the crime by the British nation. The Government
of India was conducted by a machine ; its heartlessness was
what oppressed the people. One example of it was the permis-
sion given by the India Government to export cattle to Brazil,
while thousands of children were dying for want of milk, al-
though the chiefs of Kathiawar had prohibited export from their
own territories. Mr. Montagu agreed with Father about the
Punjab atrocities, but he said he was not quite free to act always
in his own way. What he was trying to do was to bring about
internal changes in the Government machinery so that such
things should be impossible in the future.

After dinner Suniti Chatterji brought in Nicholas Roerich, the
Russian painter, and his two sons. Roerich showed us an album
containing reproductions of his paintings which had been prin-
ted on the occasion of the celebration of his jubilee by his
friends. The pictures are indeed remarkable. There is nothing
in Western art to compare with them. Father was greatly im-
pressed. One of the sons is studying Sanskrit in London, and
the other architecture. The whole family is going to India next
September. Their genuine simplicity and unaffected manners
were charming ; so refreshing, so different from the stiffness of
the English. We should like to know them better.

June 27

On Sunday afternoon Father lunched with Colonel Lawrence.
He liked him very much. Col. Lawrence said he was ashamed
to go back to Arabia because of the treacherous behaviour of
the British Government. His promises to the Arab people had
not been kept ; he could not face them, the people whom he
loved so much. Here is a young Oxford graduate who goes to
Arabia and within a short time becomes their hero, is able to
organise a powerful army which drives out the Ottoman power
from the country ; and he so freely mixes with the people that
they recognise him as one of their own and all but crown him
as their king. His career has been truly romantic, and for its

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115

romance could hardly be matched in this century. When Father
told him that he found there was a brutality inherent in the
Western people which the Indian people did not have and could
never really imbibe from their rulers — temperamentally they
were so different — he replied that the only remedy lay in strik-
ing back at the Englishman harder than he hits, for then he
would come to his senses and recognise others as worthy brothers.

June

On Thursday the East and West Society arranged a meeting
at Caxton Hall to give Father an address of welcome. The hall
was packed. Charles Roberts — the former Under-Secretary to
Montagu — presided and made a rather long speech which people
could hardly hear. Then Miss Tubbs sang four of father’s poems
set to music by a well-known composer. She has a powerful
voice, but to our ears the music sounded inappropriate to the
sense of the poems it tried to interpret. It was too operatic. Then
Sybil Thorndike, who has recently made a mark by her tragic
role in Trojan Woman and Medea , recited the poem composed
for the occasion by Laurence Binyon. Such a beautiful voice !
We were charmed by her elocution. Father replied with a brief
speech — spoken effectively. It was greatly appreciated. Ernest
Rhys told me on coming out that it was by far the best thing
of the evening. Bhupendranath Basu in moving to thank the
Chairman could not help referring to the political situation. It
was an outburst. And because of its genuine feeling his words
did not seem incongruous. The Maharajas of Alwar and Jhalwar,
Ernest Rhys, Gilbert Murray, Laurence Binyon, Sir Krishna
Govinda Gupta, and many others were present at the meeting.
We met the Dubes — they now live in the country near Brighton,
where they invited us. Quite a crowd were waiting at the en-
trance to see Father pass on his way to the carriage.

Charles Roberts had invited us to lunch. We met Lord Robert
Cecil and Gilbert Murray. Father took Lord Cecil aside after
lunch and talked all the time about Indian politics. Cecil admit-
ted that he was entirely ignorant of Indian affairs, but would
like to hear what Father had to say. After Father had told him
about the situation and the hopelessness of the Reforms intro-
duced by Montagu, Lord Cecil said, ‘But you must remember
we are a small community there, and since we believe that we

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are ruling the Indians for their benefit — we must do everything
in our power to see to the safety of this minority.’ Father replied,
Tt is only because you find yourselves a small isolated commu-
nity and therefore unable to defend your position in India with-
out the help of brutal force that this relationship has become so
disastrous.’ He did not argue much, but went away as soon as
Father had done with him. Gilbert Murray wanted to help in
anyway he could ; and Father suggested if he could get a protest
signed by a number of intellectuals like him, that would have a
great moral effect. He promised he would try and said he did
not anticipate much difficulty.

On Monday we all went to Cambridge. Lady Roberts had
asked us to tea. Father went with Pearson by the 1-30 train ; we
followed them by the evening train. Cambridge was crowded
with outsiders— it was degree day. Prof. Anderson met us at the
station. He has aged considerably. As it was difficult to get
rooms we had to put up at the Blue Boar Hotel. Father was
engaged with Prof. Anderson in the morning, discussing Bengali
prosody and comparing it with French.

Lunched with Lowes Dickinson. Prof. Keynes came. He looks
more like a youthful, bright, buoyant college student than a
great authority on world economics. His fame does not seem to
have affected him much. Dickinson has beautiful rooms in King’s
College, decorated with pieces of oriental silk and Chinese
paintings, which he must have picked up during his tour of the
East. The conversation ran on the political situation, anecdotes
of travel in the East and in America, the religious literature of
India, Chinese painting and such like topics. He wished very
much that the best of the philosophical literature of India could
be made more easily available to the West in a form in which
it could be understood by Western readers. Father said that
most of the translations were unhappy, done by scholars with-
out any distinctive grace of style or real comprehension of the
originals.

July 20

On Saturday afternoon Father left with Pearson for Peters-
field, to spend a week with the Muirhead Bones. Sturge Moore
is also in the neighbourhood. We are staying behind, as there
wouldn’t be room enough for all of us.

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117

We called on Mr. and Mrs. Yeats this afternoon. We did not
know the address but had heard from Rothenstein that they
were living in Ezra Pound’s flat. So we went to 10 Church Walk,
but Ezra Pound had shifted from there. At last we traced them
to a house quite near our place in Church Street. Rothen-
stein, who helped us to find the house, came in for a few
moments. Yeats has not changed much. He and his wife have
just come back from their long lecture tour in America. He said
that of Father’s recent works, My Reminiscences and The Home
and the World had impressed him most. He wished father had
carried on his autobiography to later years, when he wrote
his best works and was getting into touch with society. He said
The Home and the World was very true of Irish Society at the
present time. All the problems apply equally well to his country.
He asked if it had not stirred up strong feelings in India, for
he was sure it would have done so in Ireland, if a similar book
were written by an Irish writer.

On Friday evening Rothenstein had asked us to an after-
dinner party at his house. Dilip Roy gave some Indian songs.
Yeats who met Father during this visit, requested him to sing
some Gitanjali songs. Yeats first recited the poem in English in
his usual dignified manner ; then Father sang in Bengali.

July 22

An interesting interview with Sir Horace Plunkett in his flat
in Mayfair. Pearson and myself accompanied Father. The con-
versation was mostly about the co-operative movement in Ireland.
Sir Horace is not eloquent but every word he said came out of
his thirty years’ experience of organising village life in Ireland.
He is an idealist but at the same time practical. He had been
able to realise many of his dreams and that is saying a grealt
deal. He said that they had made mistakes in the beginning
but every one of those failures had taught them something and
they could point out the defects that led to them. But the princi-
ple on which they had worked was sound ; they had never
doubted that. If he were to start again from the beginning, he
would know exactly how to proceed, what pitfalls to avoid. He
was aware of the similarity of conditions in the West of Ireland
and India. He was so sorry he could not go out to India wit|h
the Industrial Commission, owing to his health. Then he dis-

118 ON THE EDGES OF TIME

cussed some of the main principles of co-operation, saying that
it was in the economic field that men could really unite and
co-operate, more so than even in religion. When father men-
tioned our project of going to Denmark, he said that when they
had started work in Ireland they had simply followed the
methods employed in Denmark where, of course, the conditions
were more favourable ; and that for that very reason it would
be more instructive for us to study the co-operative movement
in Ireland than in Denmark. We should then have a greater
understanding of the difficulties. He said that it was very neces-
sary to study the local conditions, to find out the real needs of
the people, and then to take up one thing at a time — one thing
only, and make it a success. A failure at the beginning is very
demoralising. Then he asked Father to come to Ireland — not
just at present — but he thought October would be a good time.
He expected the political situation to change by then.

On Thursday afternoon Father had lunch at Lady Courtney’s
where he met Gooch (Editor, Contemporary Review) and Mr.
and Mrs. Sidney Webb. Father liked Gooch very much. Mrs.
Webb’s generalisations regarding the treatment of labour by
Indian mill-owners and her hatred of the Fakirs as a class.,
brought out strong contradictions from Father.

August 4

The last week of July was entirely taken up by the perfor-
mance by the Union of East and West of the five dramatic
lyrics, newly translated but as yet unpublished, and Father’s
lecture under the same auspices, entitled ‘Some Songs of the
Village Mystics of Bengal’. Father had helped in the rehearsals
of the plays and Pratima and myself in dressing up the actors.
The plays were given at the Wigmore Hall without elaborate
stage effects, with only a simple background of blue curtain
and some pot plants and two spot lights. There were no foot-
lights. It was on the whole very effective. The acting was also
good. Between the acts Sarojini Naidu spoke for a few minutes
introducing each play. Miss Alice Coomara (Mrs. Coomara-
swamy) sang during the intervals and, though at times she was
monotonous, her voice was much appreciated. Before the cur-
tain rose Father recited Jana Gana Mana Adhinayaka , both in
Bengali and English. One of the things that produced the pro-

A TRAVEL DIARY

119

per atmosphere and gave a setting to the plays was a little piece
of dumb acting, preceding Kacha and DevayanU in which the
scene opened with some pupils sitting round their guru in a forest
hermitage and a few hermitage girls going round watering plants
with their pitchers. The guru chanted a Sanskrit hymn as the les-
son for the day came to an end, and then as they were going away
Kacha entered and met Devayani weaving a garland of flowers.
This little prelude was suggested by Father, and Mukul Dey,
Nikhil Chaudhuri and the Klinghoffer sisters took part in it.
It is a pity that Das Gupta could not arrange for the production
of these plays earlier in the season — all the best people haye
gone away now. Still the hall was filled, and I could feel that the
audience was appreciative. Father’s lecture followed next evening
at the same place. There was a greater demand for tickets for
the lecture than for the plays.

Some time ago Father had met Mile. D’Aranyi at the Rothen-
steins. Rothenstein had asked Dilip Roy to sing Hindi music
that evening. Father also gave one or two of his own song's.
These greatly impressed Mile. D’Aranyi and she asked Father
to come to a party where she was going to play the violin. She
said it had been her greatest ambition to play before him.
Father went there and came back very happy — full of joy for
the great treat she had given him. She played that evening as
she had never played before and Father said this was the first
occasion he had really enjoyed and fully understood European
music. She is a wonderful artist — but she can only play well
when inspired. And she was certainly inspired that evening. She
is not only a great musician but a most wonderful creature,
simple, frank, childlike and gives one the impression of posses-
sing a deep spiritual nature. Both Rothenstein and Father are
charmed with her. Rothenstein again invited her to play one
evening at his house. All of us went. She said she was rather
tired that day, and would play ducts with her sister. They play-
ed beautifully — but, of course, as Father said, not anything like
what she had done the previous evening. Her sister is married to
a Greek — Mr. Fachiri, a very nice fellow. The sisters are Hunga-
rians and are nieces of the composer Joachim. Next week we
went to their house to tea. We at once became friendly with
them. They are charming. No formalities ; one could immediately
feel the bond of human relationship with them. Prof Tovey was

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there too. He played a few pieces from Bach and Haydn and
explained them to us. He thought some of Father’s songs sug-
gested Haydn to him more than anyone else. Then they all
played together (piano, two violins and cello) a most beautiful
piece from Brahms. We all feel very fortunate in getting acquain-
ted with these girls.

A Still-born Trip to Norway

In 1920, when Europe had not quite settled down to normal
conditions after the First Great War, political espionage was
still being widely employed by all governments. It was at this
time, while we were still in London, that Father was being
flooded with invitations from every corner of Europe. In 1913
when he was awarded the Nobel Prize, he could not accept the
invitation of the Nobel Committee to go in person to Sweden
to receive the prize, as is the custom. Then the War interfered,
and now that he was in Europe again and the invitation was
renewed, he could not very well refuse it. So it was settled that
the first country to be visited on the Continent would be Sweden,
and the party to accompany him was to consist of Willie Pear-
son, who had volunteered to act as his private secretary, Mr.
Bomanji, a Parsi gentleman from Bombay, my wife and myself.
Meantime a new member came to be added to the party. Father
who always enjoyed company felt quite happy about it. A lady
was introduced to him by a well-known Orientalist whom we
knew to be connected with politics but never suspected to be
a tool in the hands of a government department. She made her-
self quite at home in our flat, in the manner natural only to
continentals, and greatly pleased Father by her interest in
Eastern philosophy. When she came to hear of our plans she
immediately offered to act as a guide at her own expense, say-
ing that she knew almost everybody worth knowing in the
Scandinavian countries and that this little service would help to
show an infinitesimal portion of the gratitude her countrymen
felt for the great poet. Obviously she could not be refused. She
began immediately to write letters and work out the details of
the tour and proved so efficient and at the same time so amiable
that both Pearson and myself felt considerably relieved. It had
been settled that we were to cross the North Sea from Newhaven

PARIS DIAR'Y

121

and land at Bergen in Norway. On the very eve of our depar-
ture, as was always my custom when travelling with Father, I
went to Thos. Cook’s to buy our tickets for the boat. I was a
familiar figure with the passage department and the clerk who
had got used to our ways, when handing over the tickets, warned
me with a smile, ‘No refund this time !’

On returning to our flat in South Kensington that evening
with passports, passages, luggage labels and what not, I was
immediately treated to a romantic story by Bomanji, who had
it fresh from his Swedish masseuse. It was the usual sordid
kind of tale told about international spies, so familiar during
the days of the War, and which in this instance applied to our
future travelling companion. Pearson’s moral indignation made
him rush out to confront the lady with the truth. On Father
it had a different reaction. He asked me immediately to change
the programme and arrange to leave for Paris the next morning.
I had long ago become used to such lightning changes, and
after all did manage to get the refund of the tickets bought a
few hours ago from the same clerk, without any other loss save
that of what little reputation was still standing to my credit as
a reliable customer in that office.

Next evening we were in Paris and a few days afterwards I
received a pile of cuttings taken from newspapers in Bergen
which I have carefully preserved. Big headlines and front page
descriptions of our arrival at Bergen and even photographs of
the party disembarking from the boat ! What a wonderful ex-
ample of a modern newspaper stunt ! And the lady who had
posted them to me, how she must have enjoyed her triumphs !

Paris Diary

Paris , 7th August 1920

Saturday evening. Chatterjee of the Y.M.C.A. took us to the
Grand Opera where Faust was being played. Father greatly
enjoyed it. It was better than any of the operas we had seen in
America or London. As a rule Father does not enjoy plays
unless they are very good — so it was a relief to find he really
liked the acting and the music. We had a bitter experience when
taking him to The Beggar’s Opera in London a few days ago.
We had all heard praises of this play even from very discrimina-

122 ON THE EDGES OF TIME

ting persons — so when Sachin Sen wanted to take us to a theatre
we ourselves suggested The Beggar* s Opera and Father of his
own accord wanted to go. But from the very first scene it pro-
ved to be a great disappointment. The subject, the treatment,
the music, everything jarred on our taste. We could find neither
humour nor any literary or artistic flavour about it. After the
second scene Father felt awfully annoyed and bored and left
the place with Pearson. We had to stay on so as not to offend
Sachin — though, poor fellow, he had left the choice entirely to
us. The last scene was the worst of all — it would have made
Father furious. We failed to understand why this obsolete and
vulgar example of the most decadent period of English litera-
ture should be suddenly revived and people go crazy over it.
Only one explanation offers itself. After the war there has been
a great urge for a strong nationalist revival. The English feel
humiliated that they should always have to go to hear foreign
operas, foreign theatres, foreign music etc. So they have pro-
duced this purely indigenous opera and to hide its shame they
applaud it in their loudest voices.

Paris , 8th August 1920

Sunday morning, accompanied by Sudhir Rudra acting as our
guide, we taxied to the guest house of the Autour du Monde
at 9 Quai du Quatre Septembre, Boulogne sur Seine. The place
is on the outskirts of Paris, beyond the Bois de Boulogne. The
house and the surroundings seemed charming especially after the
gloomy, noisy rooms of the hotel. Father remarked that after
leaving India this was the first time he had felt really happy
and at home. The Secretary. M. Gamier, was absent but it
made no difference — the attendant Laurence was such a perfect
gentleman and so attentive to all our wants. We admired him
very much. This house seems to be given over for the use of
the circle Autour du Monde by its owner M. Kahn, who lives
next door. There are two bedrooms on the second floor where dis-
tinguished foreigners and recipients of the Kahn Travelling Fellow-
ships are accommodated as guests. On the first floor is a good
library with books of travel and information about all the diffe-
rent countries of the world and the Secretary’s room. On the
ground floor are the lounge, dining room, and a beautiful par-
lour opening out on to the garden behind. The garden is a
most wonderful one. It belongs to M. Kahn, but on Sundays it

PARIS DIARV

123

is open to members of the circle. We are allowed to go there
at all times. Through a winding lane we enter at once into
mountain scenery resembling the Pyrenees. The ground has been
made undulating to give an appearance of hills and valleys. The
hills are thickly covered with pines and firs and the ground
strewn with big boulders. I have heard that all the trees and
boulders on this section of the garden were actually brought
from the Pyrenees mountains. On one side in a little opening
of the forest is a small valley with a pond full of lilies. This is
a delightful surprise — so hidden is it from the casual wanderer.
Emerging from the forest we come to a level ground laid out
with fruit trees and flower beds in the typically French style.
The fruit trees are very interesting, trained to all kinds of shapes
and sizes, but every branch is laden heavily with the most temp-
ting fruits. In the middle is a beautiful glass house and farther
on a little pond with rocks and grottos on its banks. Then
another surprise awaits the visitor. He enters a Mongolian gate-
way and a most charming and picturesque view of Japanese
landscape is revealed to him. There are some genuine Japanese
tea. houses, temples and pagodas scattered all over the garden.
All the trees are diminutive, with their branches twisted and
tortured into all kinds of fantastic shapes. There are some minia-
ture trees in pots brought from Japan that must be hundreds of
years old. Two Japanese gardeners were employed for four
years in laying out this garden, and they did their job admira-
bly well, for a garden like this would be greatly appreciated
even in Japan. But more interesting than the Society, the house,
and the garden is the owner and founder of all these — M. Kahn.
He is enormously rich, a banker, well-known in international
financial circles. But he lives an absolutely simple life — does
not even touch meat or wine. Most of his money he spends in
humanitarian work. He has founded scholarships all over the
world— by which every year dozens of scholars are able to go
round the world studying the social, economic and religious ins-
titutions of different countries and writing reports of their ex-
periences. And then he has employed a number of men who
go round different countries of the world taking motion pictures
and coloured photographs of the life of these peoples, and also
their natural surroundings and their monuments and architec-
ture. He has an idea that when these have accumulated he will

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be able to see the lines along which humanity is travelling and
the goal towards which they lead. I could not exactly follow
how this was going to be done. However the man is full of
idealism. He sees visions and is patiently waiting for the collec-
tion of materials to draw conclusions from them. He is hopeful
and full of enthusiasm for his country. He thinks France, of all
countries, is best fitted to bring about a synthesis of conflicting
ideas. Paris is full of temptations — life is so free and easy —
but those who can rise above these are men of some mettle,
because they have gone through temptations and have not
fallen, but come out purer and better than ever before. M. Kahn
speaks English, but he gets so excited while speaking that words
do not come to him, and the more he is at a loss to find suitable
words the more excited he becomes till at last he falls back on
gesticulations. One afternoon he got very confidential, and told
Father the greatest secret of his life, which he said, he had not
confided to anybody else, except perhaps to Bergson. He said he
came from a very orthodox jewish family ; his grandfather was
a Rabbi, his very name signified the priestly class. When he
came to Paris to seek his fortune he had brought with him all
the tradition of his race and family. But just as he has earned
his money single-handed, so he has built up his faith, too, by
himself. He put everything, however dear to him, to the test of
reason, and one by one most of them had to be rejected. But
at last there came questions that his reason could not answer
straightaway — he hesitated. One evening while staying at his
villa in the South of France in Mentone — amongst the loveliest
surroundings of nature — he was walking in his garden alone,
when he knelt down and watched the stars and put himself the
question of the ultimate reality. Then all of a sudden he saw a
vision, he saw reality itself, what it was he cannot express — it
was a wonderful experience with him. He cannot explain it —
but he knows he has seen it.

We meet the Karpeles sisters nearly every day. The artist
Andree comes to paint Father and Suzanne, the younger sister,
who is a pupil of Sylvain Levi and was given the title of Saras-
wati by the Calcutta University, comes to collaborate with
Father in translating his latest poems. Father translates them
into English, which she takes down in a note book and transla-
tes afterwards into her own language. Their home — a flat in

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125

Auteil — is full of Indian curios, which they had brought with
them from India. At their house we met M. Goloubew, Prof.
Finot and Prof, and Mrs. James Woods of Harvard University.
Goloubew and Finot are going in November to Indo-China to
explore the archaeological remains in Cambodia. We told them
we might be tempted to go there on our way back to India. M.
Goloubew asked us to come to the Musee Guimet one afternoon
— so we went last Saturday the 14th of August. He showed us
some slides of Indian archaeology from his own collection and
promised to give to the Asrama some slides and photographs
which he asked me to come and choose next Tuesday.

M. Sylvain Levi has come to see Father twice within the
week. He is a charming man — so unassuming, so genial. His
students are devoted to him. He has asked Father to speak at
the Sorbonne in October when he comes back. Father had long
conversations with him. Father has been trying to impress on
M. Levi, M. Kahn and others the necessity of the interchange
of thought between France and India. In India we are getting
Western culture only through English literature — we have not
come in contact with Continental culture. Europe is suffering
at the present moment because its culture has rejected the East
altogether. By rejecting Christian ideals her civilization has lost
its balance. She must also get in touch with Eastern idealism
and faith, otherwise it would be fatal for her. Father has sug-
gested an interchange of scholars.

Prof. Le Bran came to pay a visit on the second day after
our arrival. He has read all Father’s works and is a devoted
admirer. He has himself translated The. Gardener into French
metrical verse. He is very eager to do some more translations.
He brought his wife with him the other day — she is young.
Their history is romantic and it seems Father’s poems had a
lot to do with it. They got attracted to each other through a
common admiration for Father’s poems. This is the second ins-
tance we have heard of such an adventure. Prof. Fouchet was
married to his young pupil in the same way. Mme Fouchet had
written a thesis on Father’s works, and hearing that Prof.
Fouchet was interested in India had taken it to him. This
meeting inevitably led to the wedding altar !

Father is trying to find suitable translators for his works in
France. Somehow or other not many of his books have been

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ON THE EDGES OF TIME

translated into French yet. We were told Nouvelle Revue Fran-
caisc would be the proper firm to deal with, since they had
already published Gitanjali and The Gardener.

With Father on the Continent

We remained the guests of M. Kahn at the Autour du Monde
for quite a long time. The hospitality of M. Kahn was widely
known, and every day either at lunch or dinner we would meet
writers, artists and other distinguished people. With Henri Berg-
son Father had very long discussions . 1 Father enjoyed talking
with Bergson because he spoke English as fluently as his mother
tongue ; so few Frenchmen speak any English at all. Bergson’s
mother was Scottish ; so it was no wonder that he could speak
English — though with a Scottish accent.

The Comtesse de Brimont was quite a well-known poet in
France. She used to come quite often to hear Father read the
most recent translations of his Bengali poems. She would request
him even to recite the originals. She had a desire to translate
some of Father’s works. She therefore wanted to enter into the
spirit of the originals by hearing him recite them. But of much
greater reputation was the Comtesse de Noailles. She came one
afternoon escorted by M. Kahn, who was a devoted admirer of
the poetess. We were charmed at once by her radiant persona-
lity. Effusive, demonstrative and highly temperamental, she was
typically French. In her youth she must have been very attrac-
tive. Before she left she confessed to Father that she had come
to conquer but all her vanity had vanished on meeting him, and
now she was going away a devotee and a worshipper.

We had come to know the Karpeles sisters when they had
visited India some years ago. Andree, the elder sister, was an
artist and had already established a reputation in Paris. Suzanne
was a student of Sanskrit. Their devotion to Father was un-
bounded. and throughout our stay in France their services were
entirely at our disposal. My wife became especially attached to

1 A report of one of these was published at the time in the pages of
the Modem Review by Sudhir Rudra who happened to be present. I was
told afterwards that Bergson did not like the idea of a tete-a-tete being
published without his permission.

WITH FATHER ON THE CONTINENT

127

Andrde. She remained our dearest and most faithful friend ever
since — until her death in November 1956. Without her help
we could not have come into such intimate contact with the
artistic and intellectual life of Paris. Paris was still the cultural
centre of Europe. We considered ourselves fortunate in having
been able to get a glimpse of that intense living, that atmos-
phere of daring adventure always striving after the impossible
in the realm of intellect and art — that rich and varied life which
could only be found in Paris, until it was broken up by succes*
sive political and economic upheavals in recent years. About
this time a revolution in the art world had been brought about
by the Impressionists and later on by the Post-Impressionists.
The art of Cezanne, Manet, Renoir, Gauguin, Van Gogh, Rodin
and others of this school was the current topic of conversation,
and a storm of controversy raged round them everywhere. Nei-
ther their paintings nor sculpture had yet found a place in any
of the official exhibitions. We were anxious to see some of the
paintings of this new school. Andree Karpeles took us to an
art dealer’s shop in Place de Madeleine, where, I believe, for the
first time a considerable collection of Impressionist and Post-
Impressionist paintings was exhibited. The effect on us was over-
whelming. Van Gogh especially impressed me, and my admira-
tion for this mad artist has not waned in the least during all
these years.

Father had found a warm welcome in the home of Professor
and Madame Sylvain Levi. They lived in a flat close to the
Halle and the Jardin des Plantes, in surroundings not at all
attractive. But once inside the living rooms of the Levis, the
drab and uninviting surroundings were forgotten. There was
such a homely atmosphere and the motherly attentions of
Madame Levi seemed so pleasing that instantly everybody felt
at ease. Prof. Levi was regarded as the doyen of Indological
scholarship in the West. A great pundit, but possessed withal
of a keen sense of humour and a sociable nature, his students
simply adored him. His relationship with his students had much
of the character of our traditional relationship between guru and
chela. It was during these visits to their flat that Father proposed
and it was settled that Prof. Levi would come to Santiniketan
as the first Visiting Professor from abroad.

Father was very keen to meet two writers whom he consi-

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dered the most eminent among the literary personalities of
France. Although Andre Gide had translated Gitanjali some
years back. Father had not yet met him. Romain Rolland’s
books had convinced Father that he had much in common with
him. But he had not met Rolland either. Strangely enough,
whenever Father mentioned his desire to meet Romain Rolland
our French friends somehow or other avoided the subject. By
his attitude towards the defeated Germans, Rolland had become
a persona non grata in France and nobody cared to help us to
find him, although we discovered that he was then living in
Paris. With great difficulty I secured his address, and one day
walked up many flights of dingy stairs to a flat on the top floor
of an apartment house and knocked. I had never met Rolland
nor even seen any photograph of the author. A frail-looking,
oldish figure of a schoolmaster type opened the door and I
was not much impressed by his appearance. The name was so
much more romantic. His books and his name had conjured up
in my imagination the picture of a very attractive personality.
Now that I had met him at last I did not know what to say.
1 soon found out Rolland did not speak a word of English, and
my smattering of French was of little use. So I hastily left with-
out fulfilling my mission. We eventually came to know Rolland
intimately but that was long afterwards when he had settled in
Switzerland.

With Andre Gide I had an even worse encounter. Whilst
taking a morning walk with my wife and Andree Karpeles along
the fringe of the Bois du Boulogne behind Auteuil, our friend
pointed out a house with a curious modernistic architecture,
saying that was where Gide lived. She also mentioned at the
same time that he was very eccentric and never received any
visitors. We, however, made up our minds to take our chance
and knocked at his door. After waiting a few minutes we knock-
ed again. Nothing however disturbed the silence of the house
and we were on the point of going away, when suddenly the
door was opened by a man in a flowing dressing gown. He
stared at us for a moment, flung the doors wide open and dis-
appeared in a trice. For a while we only saw a flying figure
running up the stairs two at a time only to vanish in the myste-
rious and quaint interior of the house. Andree explained it was
.nothing but shyness that made Gide behave like this.

WITH FATHER ON THE CONTINENT

129

Another very interesting person we met in Paris, not in 1920
but four years later, was Sehora Vittoria Ocampo. She was well-
known in her country, the Argentine, as a poet and writer and
a patron of Art, and her reputation had spread to Paris, which
she visited frequently. Her dignified bearing and charm of man-
ners made her a very attractive personality. Whenever she came
she would go straight to Father, in utter disregard of all forma-
lities and completely oblivious of the presence of others. Her
devotion to Father was extraordinary. She had the deepest re-
gard and affection for him and she was willing to go to any
length to satisfy his slightest fancy. Her imperiousness very often
led to complications. When Father was invited to Peru to attend
the centenary celebrations of her attainment of independence
and was actually on his way there, it was Senora Ocampo who
prevailed upon him to accept the hospitality of her country house
near Buenos Aires, because she thought that he was too ill to
undertake the arduous journey over the Andes to Peru. Later
on it was found that her fears regarding Father’s health were
not groundless. This almost led to a major political crisis between
Argentine and Peru. Father got used to a chair which she hajd
provided for him in her house. When the boat which carried
him back to Europe was about to sail, she insisted that Father’s
suite of cabins should be furnished by her. She had a great
argument with the shipping company’s agents and eventually
managed to make them removed the door of the cabin in order
to accommodate the chair she had brought. She knew how to
get round people and make them carry out her wishes. The
chair is still preserved in the Rabindra-Sadana (Tagore Museum)
as a token of Vijaya’s (so my father named her) devotion to
Father.

In 1930 when Father visited Paris again he brought with him
a selection of his paintings. The artists who saw them wanted
him to exhibit them. We made enquiries and found that to get
up an exhibition in Paris at short notice was next to impossi-
ble. It takes more than a year just to obtain a suitable hall.
Father cabled to Senora Ocampo to come and help him. She
came immediately, and, without the least effort — at least so it
seemed to us — made all arrangements for the exhibition. The
Theatre Pigalle was secured, the necessary publicity was arran-
ged and the paintings displayed within a few days. This was an

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ON THE EDGES OF TIME

amazing feat. Our French friends would not believe that an
exhibition could be organized at such short notice in a place
like Paris.

Immediately after the war it was not easy to obtain a visa to
travel directly from France to Germany so we went over to
Holland. There we met Dr. Frederick Van Eeden, the translator
of Father’s books into the Dutch language. Van Eeden was a
disillusioned idealist and as a reaction to the inhumanity of the
war he was trying to establish a colony where plain living and
high thinking would be strictly followed. The difficulty arose
when his disciples preferred easy living on the plea of high
thinking. Van Eeden’s colony met the same fate as all previous
attempts by unpractical idealists at establishing Utopias in this
selfish material world of ours.

The ovation Father received, especially in Germany, was tre-
mendous. Most of all we liked the week spent in Darmstadt.
We had been asked to stay with the Grand Duke of Hesse. He
was still held in great respect not because of his position or his
relationship with the Kaiser and Queen Victoria but because of
his easy camaraderie with the common people and his genial
personality. His popularity had not diminished in the least even
after the revolution. The Duke related to us how on the day
the revolution broke out a mob came to his gate and wanted
to take possession of the palace. They were rather nonplussed
when he opened the gates wide and invited everybody to come
in and enjoy themselves. His barber was leading the crowd. They
went straight to the cellars, had their fill of wine and then with
his permission got out all his cars and drove madly round and
round the city. In the evening all was quiet, and the Duke re-
mained in possession of his palace.

During the week Father stayed in Darmstadt there was no
official programme, no receptions to attend, no lectures to give.
The grounds , of the palace had been thrown open to the public.
Whenever during the morning or the afternoon a sufficient
crowd had gathered. Father would come out and meet the peo-
ple and talk to them. Count Hermann Keyserling, who was
really responsible for the invitation to Darmstadt and for the
arrangements made there, would act as interpreter. He was of
course well qualified for this task and performed it so well that
Father had no difficulty in carrying on discourses in philosophic

WITH FATHER ON THE CONTINENT

131

cal subjects for hours with the people. They would very often
ask questions and he would explain to them what he thought
about the problems. I wish a verbatim report had been kept
of those discourses. It would have given a very good indication
of the bent of the German mind and also a clear exposition of
Father’s ideas regarding various problems of life and philosophy.

In the palace of the Grand Duke had gathered quite a few
members of the Kaiser’s family. All the sons were there except
the Crown Prince, who was at the time involved in an escapade
of some sort. One day the second son asked me to take him to
Father’s room where he wished to meet him quietly. I have seen
hard-hearted Germans cry before but the way in which the prince
broke down and wept before Father was a revelation. At the
end he presented Father with a specially designed vase which he
said represented his sentiment more than he could express. For
myself I received a cigaratte case with the Hohenzollern emblem.

On Sunday the Duke and Count Keyserling took us out for
a drive. At one of the parks we got down and mixed with the
holiday crowd that had gathered there. There was a little hillock
and Father was conducted to the top where he sat on a stone
bench and soon all the people flocked there and stood round
in a circle on the slopes. Without any encouragement they
burst into song. Song after song followed for nearly an hour.
There must have been a crowd of about two thousand. There
was nobody to lead them and yet a choir of two thousand
voices sang without hesitation and in perfect harmony. Such a
performance would be unthinkable outside Germany. This spon-
taneous ovation from the common people, so beautifully ren-
dered, touched Father deeply. We left Darmstadt with a heavy
heart.

Having gone to Germany it was inevitable that Father should
go to Sweden. The acceptance of the invitation by the Nobel
Committee was overdue. Stockholm is one of the most beautiful
cities of Europe hence the stay there was very pleasant. At the
official banquet Father met most of the authors whom he had
read in translations. The King of Sweden presided and Selma
Lagerlof acted as hostess on the occasion. Father sat between
them. There were present besides others Knut Hamsun, Bjom-
son, Sven Hedin, Bojer and all the notable writers of Scandina-
via. I sat next to the Secretary of the Committee and he whis-

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pered to me the story of his discomfiture when Knut Hamsun
had been invited to receive the Prize. The banquet table is
always provided liberally with wines and spirits. Knut Hamsun
was of peasant stock and rather fond of the bottle. After the
congratulatory speeches when they looked round to where
Hamsun had sat, expecting a reply from him, there was only
the empty chair. He had by then slid underneath the table and
was vainly pulling at the skirt of Selma Lagerlof to draw him-
self up. Fortunately Hamsun behaved himself on this occasion.

We had met Sven Hedin, the traveller, on a previous occasion.
He had a habit of turning up unexpectedly in all sorts of places.
Fie was at home everywhere — he had made the whole world
his home. Father was an admirer of his travel books. Now he
became devoted to the man. It was so easy to make friends
with him. Sven Hedin was still smarting under the offensive
treatment he had received from the British who had taken away
all the honours once bestowed on him. He looked much younger
than his age and told us that he would be again going out on an
expedition somewhere in Central Asia. One day the Swedish
Home Minister who came to see Father told him that his govern-
ment would be only too pleased to offer him an army seaplane
to go back to Berlin. Father liked the idea and a plane was
being got ready. When Sven Hedin came afterwards to bid
farewell, he was greatly upset on hearing of the proposal and
warned me that I should not encourage Father to take such a
risk. Although he loved his country, he could not allow Father
to fiy in a Swedish plane on any account. He would not mind
if a German piloted the machine. This was when air travel was
still in its infancy. He immediately rang up the Ministry and
gave them a piece of his mind. After that we had no option but
to board a train and be ferried across the Straits.

Coming back to Germany after Father had fulfilled a few
lecture engagements in the north we found ourselves in the
delightful town of Miinchen in Southern Germany. Father’s
German publisher Kurt Wolff had invited us to spend a few
days with him at his home there. Whilst we roamed about the
Art Galleries and Museums Father discussed business with the
publisher. Most of the cities of Germany are beautifully kept,
but the little capital of Bavaria deserves special mention. We
became enamoured of its charm. Hitler was at that time trying

WITH FATHER ON THE CONTINENT

133

to enlist followers - and organizing his Social Democratic Party,
but people hardly took him seriously then. When I was taken
to the Beer-hall which afterwards became so notorious, the
table where Hitler always sat with his satellites was pointed out
to me.

One day an Austrian lady came to call on Father. She said
that she had come all the way from Vienna carrying invitations
to Father to visit that city and deliver some lectures there. We
had already decided to go back to Paris but she was insistent
and would not take a refusal. Austria had suffered and was still
suffering more than any other country after the war and was
more in need of Father’s healing presence, she said, than even
Germany. When all other persuasions failed she even offered
remuneration for the lectures and explained that although they
were poverty-stricken the people of Vienna would gladly go
starving for a week in order to save a few marks to enable
them to get a glimpse of the great poet and listen to his words.
Since it was impossible to deny her. Father had to agree. We
did not go to Vienna at once but took in Prague on our way.
This gave Father an opportunity to fulfil the promise he had
previously made to the Czechs and also to meet Prof. Win-
ternitz for whom he had very great regard. The Bohemians had
suffered for centuries under foreign rule. As a result of the
Treaty of Versailles and thanks to President Wilson the people
were enjoying freedom for the first time. They were in a
jubilant mood and Father’s arrival just at that juncture aroused
great joy and excitement. They tried to make the most of this
occasion. Prof. Winternitz and Dr. V. Lesny were asked by the
President, Dr. Masaryk, to take charge of the Poet and his party.
Father had met Masaryk previously when we were staying at
Cap Martin. In this way we came into close contact with the
two learned orientalists, and the invitation Father extended to
them then resulted in their visit to Santiniketan later on. Among
the many invitations we received I was surprised one day to get
two different invitation cards simultaneously from the Univer-
sity. The mystery was solved when we discovered that after
gaining independence the Czechs had to have a University of
their own — separate from the former State University founded
by the Germans ; but since buildings were scarce and could not
be built in a day, the same building served both the universities

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with their double set of professors and students by rotation.
Thus we were in the morning received by Prof. Wintemitz in
the German University and in the afternoon by Dr. Lesny in the
Czech University.

On our way back to the hotel, I wondered why we were
being taken by a different route. I had by this time got fairly
familiar with the city. Suddenly the car stopped and we were
told by the chauffeur that there was some trouble and it would
take a few minutes to put it right. Immediately a man turned
up and said it was a shame that the Poet should wait in the car
and offered to take us up to his place in front of which the car
had stopped. We were hustled out and found ourselves in a
photo atelier. Then I remembered that this very photographer
had been pestering me for permission to take a photo and had
been repeatedly refused. He must have then applied to the
chauffeur for help. I must say however that he did not waste
the opportunity he had obtained by perhaps not very honest
means. In a few minutes he took some dozens of exposures.
He had a relay of assistants who carried the exposed negatives
and brought back fresh ones by passing them from hand to
hand. And these photographs turned out to be some of the best
Father had ever had taken.

In Prague we had felt so much at home, thanks to our
professor friends, Wintemitz and Lesny, that we felt sad to have
to leave these hospitable people and their beautiful city crowded
with ancient palaces and fortresses. But Vienna beckoned to us
and Vienna had a charm of its own, although the war had left
her population in a sad plight. From an atmosphere of joy and
happiness at the sudden attainment of an unhoped for freedom
we found ourselves within a few hours amongst a people living
in semi-starvation and eating out their hearts in utter despon-
dency. Such was the state of the continent of Europe after the
first World War. Whilst crossing frontiers we had very often to
witness extreme contrasts of this nature. I shall never forget an
incident that occurred when we went over to Holland from
France. At that time we were not sure that we would be per-
mitted to go to Germany. But Father was most anxious to
meet Professor and Mrs. Meyer Benfey who had translated his
books So he had asked them to come over from Hamburg to a
village in Holland where we were to be the guests of Mrs. Van

WITH FATHER ON THE CONTINENT 135

Eeghen. They arrived at night and we met them next morning
at the breakfast table. The table was overloaded with heaps of
fruit, bread, butter, cheese, cream and all kinds of rich fare.
The two emaciated Germans sat there in silence and would not
touch any of it. After a time tears began to trickle down their
cheeks. They had not seen such profusion for the last five years.
And Holland was next door to Germany.

Vienna was a gay city under the Hapsburg emperors. It was
a doomed city after the war. The people went about with
haggard emaciated faces dressed in tattered clothes. But it was
wonderful to see that they had not lost their intense craving
for art and such things as they considered really mattered. We
found that theatres, concerts, opera houses and lecture halls
were crowded as usual. People would starve themselves in order
to save money to buy tickets for these places.

Wagner’s Die Meistersinger was being given in the Opera
House at this time. We persuaded Father to go and hear it.
Prof. Wintemitz who had accompanied us from Prague ex-
plained the story and during the performance interpreted the
music. To an Indian, Western music is too foreign to under-
stand. Never before had I even tried to understand classical
operatic music. Although Die Meistersinger is perhaps the most
difficult of Wagner’s operas, we were able to follow and appre-
ciate most of it, so well did the Professor interpret it to us.
Of course by the time it was over our heads felt like bursting.
What seems to me incomprehensible and in a way against all
canons of art, is that Western music should not rest content only
by arousing the emotions but should try to lead every emotion
constantly to an impossible climax of passion.

True to her word the Austrian lady, who was responsible for
bringing us to Vienna and arranging for the lectures given by
Father, offered a handsome sum of money as honorarium.
Father handed back the whole amount with the request that it
be spent for providing nourishment to the starving children of
Vienna. I was told afterwards that this gift endeared Father to
the Austrians more than anything else.

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Visit to Italy

The visit to Italy in 1926 on the invitation of Mussolini gave
rise to much misunderstanding both in India and other countries.
Prof, and Mrs. P. C. Mahalanobis had been selected by Father
to accompany him. At the last moment Father insisted that my
wife, our daughter Nandini and myself should also go with him.
So we were quite a big party. Mussolini had appointed Prof.
Carlo Formichi to act as guide and take charge of all arrange-
ments in Italy. Formichi had spent a year at Santiniketan as a
visiting professor and therefore we knew him quite well. He
was a likeable person and made us feel quite at home imme-
diately on landing at Naples and we thought we would be spared
the burden of an officially conducted tour. One incident, how-
ever, gave us a warning. Leonard K. Elmhirst had come from
England to meet us. Young Leonard had completely captured
the heart of Father during his trip to the Argentine and he was
overjoyed to find him now in Italy. Laughingly remarking that
only an Englishman could serve at the proper corrective to
Mussolini, Father asked him to join the party. A special train
had been ordered to take us from the docks at Naples to Rome.
Leonard hastened to fetch his belongings and buy a ticket. In
the meantime we were hustled into the train by Formichi and
without warning, it started. We looked out for our English
friend. Just as the train was steaming out of the platform and
gathering speed we saw him jump into it in spite of the gesticu-
lations of Formichi warning him off. From this incident Leo-
nard took the hint that his company would not be looked upon
with favour by the authorities and left after a few days. I need
not dwell at length on the splendid receptions given to Father
everywhere he went. These are well-known from reports pub-
lished at the time. But a few details which are not so well-known
may prove to be of interest even now.

Whilst we were still in Rome and Father had given interviews
to newspaper reporters and replied to public addresses, Maha-
lanobis and myself began to suspect that Father was not being
correctly reported in the papers. Our friend Andree Karpeles,
who had now a Swedish husband and had come to Rome partly
to meet us and partly to make her husband acquainted with
Italy, confirmed our suspicions as she could read Italian. We

VISIT TO ITALY

137 ’

tried to pick up some knowledge of Italian ourselves but not
daring to rely on this, employed an Austrian lady who knew
both English and Italian to translate the reports. The transla-
tions were not satisfactory. We discovered that she was a well-
known international spy and was in the pay of Mussolini.

By a strange coincidence we found that Rome had become
the rendezvous of a large number of our old friends and
acquaintances just when we were there. The presence of Mrs.
Vaughan Moody in addition to that of Leonard Elmhirst,
Andree Karpeles and her husband Dal Hogman was a pleasant
surprise. These friends brought also their friends to the Grand
Hotel where we had put up. Father was in a very happy mood ;
he enjoyed good company and there was no lack of it during
the days we spent in Rome that summer. Mrs. Moody suggest-
ed one day that Father should not leave the city without meeting
the philosopher Benedetto Croce. Father, of course, had been
wanting to meet him but did not know exactly how to bring
it about not having any previous acquaintance with him nor
knowing where he lived. Prof. Formichi was not too anxious
to help. Mrs. Moody brought a young officer of the Italian
army who knew Croce well and who offered to bring him to
Father without anybody getting wise about it. Being an officer in
the army who owed his allegiance to the King, he rather
relished the idea of doing Mussolini in the eye, just for once.
Father told him not to be in a hurry. He would ask the Duce
himself to arrange the interview. Father did ask him when they
met. Mussolini immediately ordered Formichi to arrange the
meeting. Now that permission had been obtained the problem
arose how to arrange that Croce should be able to talk freely
with Father without the presence of Mussolini’s agents. The
young officer again offered his help. He flew to Naples and
brought Croce the next morning at five o’clock, before anybody
was up. Father had an uninterrupted talk for many hours with
the grand old man of Italy, and was sitting at breakfast with
him in his room, when Prof. Formichi turned up. I was in the
corridor mounting guard and when he learnt from me that
Father was closeted with a visitor who was none other than
Croce, he got very excited. It was amusing to witness the tear-
ing of hair and gnashing of teeth that followed.

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ON THE EDGES OF TIME

With regard to the interview, I do not know what 1 the two
great men discussed for so long — none of us were present — but
that Father was pleased is evident from a letter he wrote to
Duke Scotti immediately afterwards :

With some difficulty I secured a glimpse of your great philoso-
pher Croce. For my delight is in meeting the heroes of the free
mind. When we come to Europe it is to have the inspiration of
the liberty of thought and of creative spirit and not to be be-
wildered by the spirit of the athletic vigour of your efficiency
which you seem to have newly borrowed from America, the
continent which seems to believe that growing fat is to be grow-
ing great and is therefore suspicious of idealism and free expres-
sion of truth.

On our first visit to Italy in 1925 Duke Scotti had received
us in Milan. Belonging to one of the most ancient and noble
families of Italy, he was a true aristocrat and in addition a
good scholar responsible for founding the Circolo Filologico
Milanese in Milan. Everybody loved and respected him. But
Mussolini did not like the influence he had over the people in
Milan. Although the Fascist revolution had started in that city
and it was from there that Mussolini marched towards the south,
the northerners never became ardent followers of the Duce.
We soon came to know that he had sent his trusted mistress to
the Hotel Cavour where we were staying to keep a watch on
Father and the nature of his intimacy with Duke Scotti. On this
visit the Duke as well as people that we met talked freely with
regard to the political situation in Italy. But when we returned
in 1926 the circumstances had changed. The Fascists had gained
a stronger hold over the north, and people were quaking with
fear and keeping their feelings to themselves. When we met the
Duke, he was a changed man. He dared not do more than pay
a formal call. We could see that it was painful for him to keep
himself under such control. In order that Father should not
take away a wrong impression he sent his near relative, the
sister of the King, to meet Father secretly in Turin, not only
to explain his conduct and tell Father about the sufferings of
their family under the Fascist regime but to hand over som,e
papers containing evidence of the barbarous treatment meted

1 The interview was briefly reported by P. C. Mahalanobis in the
Visva-Bharati Quarterly for October, 1926.

VISIT TO ITALY

139

out to intellectuals who were unwilling to prostitute their souls
at the altar of Fascism. We had not been feeling very happy
over the false publicity given to Father’s visit by the Fascist
Press. We had heard whispers of the atrocities committed by the
hirelings of Mussolini. These documents sent by the Duke con-
firmed our surmise that all was not well behind the apparent
prosperity and happiness of the people. Father could do nothing
so long as he was in Italy to remove the impression that he
had become enamoured of Mussolini’s rule. He therefore be-
came anxious to get to Switzerland where he could obtain an
open forum and speak out his mind. Romain Rolland had settled
down at Villeneuve, a very quiet resort on Lake Geneva. We
decided to go there. But there still remained Venice and Turin
to complete our tour programme in Italy. The people of these
two cities were insisting that Father should go there. Venice had
its own attraction and Turin was on our way to Switzerland. So
the invitations that continued to pour in through letters and
telegrams and even deputations, were finally accepted, and we
went first to Venice.

The reception given to Father on arrival by the city fathers
and other dignitaries was interesting and impressed us by its
medieval character. Venice still kept up its old customs and
traditions. We could well imagine similar receptions being
accorded to some royalty visiting the ancient city of the Doges
in the Middle Ages. But a rude shock was received when we
were taken to our hotel accompanied by all these officials dress-
ed in richly decorated costumes on a fleet of very modem
motor boats noisily hooting their sirens to proclaim their
modernity. Whilst Father was busy receiving deputations and
attending official functions we younger people used sometimes
to enjoy ourselves on the quiet by going out in gondolas and
wandering aimlessly through the maze of canals, traversing the
city, watching the life of the people and occasionally coming
across interesting relics of the past. We avoided the Grand
Canal, since much of its character had been spoilt by the tourist
traffic. On hearing my wife talk about our interesting experi-
ence and of the comfort of being able to move about freely
without being escorted by officials Father bemoaned his fate
and said we were a heartless and selfish lot of youngsters.
Spurred by his admonition we very quietly engaged a gondola

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ON THE EDGES OF TIME

early next morning and slipped out with Father on a tour of
the canals before anybody could know. When we returned to
the Grand Hotel after having thoroughly enjoyed our trip
(Father rarely had any privacy when travelling abroad and as
a matter of fact not much even in India) the hotel was in an
uproar. The manager had collected the whole staff and was
making enquiries as to how and where the Poet had disappeared.
The telephone was kept busy and the police were being asked
to send out patrol boats to make a search of the canals. But
what amused us most was the sight of Professor Formichi in
utter desperation, running about the hotel shouting and gesticu-
lating as only an Italian can. Even a temptingly hot omelette
on the breakfast table afterwards could not mollify him.

Frontiers in Europe

The tour of 1926 was a memorable one for various reasons. For
those who had not been with Father on this tour, it is impossi-
ble to imagine the immense popularity and the ovation with
which he was received in every country. At every place he visit-
ed he received not only a princely reception by the government
officials as well as the populace but was treated with the pro-
found respect due to a prophet. At every railway station
huge crowds would gather to have darsan or just touch the hem
of his robe— a sight which hardly fitted in with our conception
of the rationalistic and unemotional people of the West. From
one end of Europe to the other we were carried along on the
crest of this emotional tide. Towards the end of the tour we
found ourselves in a more oriental setting in the Southern Bal-
kans. After a short stay at Sofia, crowded with engagements and
public receptions, we left this pretty capital of the Bulgars on
the special train ordered by the king, and escorted by a host
of officials, journalists and writers for a little town on the Roma-
nian frontier. It was a very short journey but the preparations
for it were elaborate in the extreme. We had by this time be-
come quite accustomed and almost indifferent to hearty wel-
comes, but such a demonstrative farewell seemed rather unusual.
However, the royal suite of carriages soon reached its destina-
tion and we found ourselves on a wharf overhanging the banks
of the Danube, which is the natural eastern boundary between

A SWISS PEASANT

141

the two countries. The river at these lower reaches is fairly
wide and did indeed remind us of the Ganges. But imagine our
surprise when we had to embark a battleship cruiser, gaily deco-
rated with flags and buntings, to be ferried across the river to
the Romanian port-town on the opposite bank. This we did to
the accompaniment of gun salutes and a brass band playing
their loudest the national songs of the country. While all this
noise was going on we noticed a certain amount of curiosity
and eagerness on the part of our hosts scanning the scene of
the opposite bank which we were approaching. This feeling
very soon changed to one of amusement and then suddenly to
hilarious mirth as the cruiser was banked on the side of a deso-
late pier with only one solitary person, who stood gesticulating
and tearing his hair and gnashing his teeth at the approaching
boat. A final salvo of guns and we were courteously escorted
down the gangway into the arms of this wild-looking gentle-
man. As the boat moved out we could hear another loud burst
of laughter and then the brass band followed making incoherent
noises. No explanation was offered to us at the time for the
reason of these outbursts of vociferous mirth. The explanation
came later from the disconsolate gentleman who received us
and who happened to be the station master of the tiny railway
terminus. The Bulgars had seen to it that no definite informa-
tion of the time of our arrival reached the Romanian govern-
ment, so that there would be no previous arrangements wel-
coming Father and conveying our party to the Romanian capital.
The discomfiture of the Romanians on this occasion must have
given the Bulgars many an hour of enjoyment afterwards.

A Swiss Peasant

A summer holiday in the surroundings of St. Moritz, Switzerland,
is a delightful experience. We were particularly fortunate in
having the company of some Hungarian friends, which made
the holidays still more enjoyable. We had chosen a comfortable
but secluded hotel beside the lake at Silsmaria, just far enough
from the sports-mad crowds that generally infest the famous
summer resort. Our group of friends included the famous Hun-
garian violinist, Huberman. But we saw very little of him as he
used to shut himself up in his suite and could rarely be persua-

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ded to come down to the dining-room. We came to know of
some of his idiosyncrasies. Whenever he had to travel, not one
but several contiguous suites and sometimes the whole floor had
to be booked for him. Moreover, he always carried padded quilts
which had to be fixed on to the doors and windows. Even after
these precautions had been taken to make his room perfectly
soundproof, he would complain of the noise.

One afternoon an excursion had been arranged to the Italian
frontier. We sped on motor cars down winding roads through
deep gorges and pine-covered valleys to this tiny hamlet border-
ing on Italy. We stopped opposite a house where grew some
palm trees and as I stood admiring these in such strange and
foreign surroundings, a Hungarian friend suggested that we
should call and find out more about the proprietor who had
such taste. A very uncouth looking man came out and beckoned
us to go inside. But we had to discover one amongst our party
who knew the particular dialect spoken amongst the peasants
in this part of Switzerland before we could understand a word
of what he said. One by one the whole party was introduced to
him. When the names of my wife and myself were mentioned
the man opened his mouth in astonishment and enquired if we
had any connection with the Poet. When the relationship was
explained to him his astonishment knew no bounds and he be-
gan to shake with excitement. He ran inside, shouted for his sis-
ter and then catching hold of our hands dragged us upstairs to
a room which to our great surprise we found filled from floor
to ceiling with books. All the German translations of my father’s
works were there. But all this was nothing when to our intense
astonishment the man, dressed in the usual costume of the Swiss
peasantry, with his rough hands pulled out a Sanskrit classic and
began to recite poem after poem in the original. Through our
interpreter I learnt that some years ago he had come across a
translation of two lines from the Upanishads in a German book.
These appealed to him so much that then and there he made
up his mind to send for some Sanskrit books in order to learn
the language and to read the original of those translations. His
knowledge of Sanskrit which he had to pick up by himself
without any help from anyone in that lonely spot in the moun-
tains of Switzerland, forty miles away from any railway, seemed
to me to cover a wide range of sudies in literature and philoso-

A SWISS PEASANT

143

phy. We then met the sister who said that she was passionately
fond of Chitra, The Home and The World and The Post Office,
Every evening she went out to give readings from these books
to the other peasants of the village. For her livelihood she made
leather cushions with Indian designs. The models of the designs
were taken from an old bat-tala edition of the Ramayana ; how
she secured it is a mystery.

We returned home much richer by our contact with the pea-
sant savant and the spontaneous homage of the two simple un-
sophisticated souls to cultural India made us feel inordinately
proud of our heritage.

Potisar

In between the years spent in travels abroad with Father, my
time was mostly spent at Santiniketan. The management of the
estates, however, remained in my charge and I had necessarily
to pay occasional visits to Shelidah and to Potisar. I greatly
enjoyed these visits, as they helped to renew the memories of
my boyhood days, spent in pleasant adventures amidst these
surroundings. Some years after the first World War, urgent busi-
ness took me to Potisar for a few days.

A long and tedious journey in a jolting train came to an end
and with a joyful eagerness, as when one is about to meet a
long-lost friend, T boarded the house-boat which was to carry
me to Potisar. The boat moved without making any fuss and
with hardly any apparent hurry, but soon the railway bridge
over the river, the ugly sheet-iron sheds that cluster round every
wayside station in Bengal, were left far behind and out of sight.

The river Atrai is not one of the many rivers that have a wide
reputation in our country. It is hardly known to outsiders. Its
history does not go back to ancient times. It is not mentioned
in the Mahabharata . Pilgrims do not crowd its banks on holy
days, to dip in its waters and purify their souls. This river is
one of the multitude of similar obscure streams meandering
aimlessly for hundreds of miles through the verdant plains of
Bengal. It seems to be conscious of its insignificance, and tries
to find its way out willy-nilly through wide stretches of paddy
land, often spreading out and losing itself in formless swamps.
It would then suddenly make up its mind boldly to enter a
village and, when half through, would gently turn round a court-
yard with apologies to its owner and disappear again into the
wilderness. And never during its endless sinuous course would

POTISAR 145

it have the courage to approach a big market or a prosperous
town.

As I was carried along the sluggish current of this Atrai river,
I soon fell in with its mood. Time lost its measured value. The
necessity of arriving at a destination vanished. I drew the easy-
chair close to the window and gazed silently at the slowly rece-
ding landscape. On both sides of the bank were laid ingenious
fishing traps of various shapes and sizes. A procession of girls,
with their rustic saris drawn over their heads and holding shin-
ing brass pitchers clasped to their lithe bodies, wound their way
to the bank where the path from the village dipped into the
river, and where with clamorous shouts naked children splashed
about in the water. A flock of tame ducks gliding on the water
drew away towards the opposite bank. At the next turning of
the river the inner courtyard of a cluster of thatched cottages
lay exposed to view by the bank with a bamboo fencing to
which still hung a cucumber climber. On one side was a stack
of paddy brought fresh from the fields and on the other stood
a couple of old women with long poles husking the paddy in
a wooden bowl. Watching from the river as it wound through
the peaceful hamlets, the panorama of the daily life of these
simple folk was revealed to me ; the drudgery of the men in the
fields, the monotonous routine of daily housekeeping of the
women, their occasional recreations and rare amusements. I sat
gazing and watching with interest every little detail, until sudden-
ly the feeling that I had no right to such an intimate view of a
life that was not my own, made me turn indoors, ashamed of
my curiosity.

But this picture of the serene life of the peasantry in a comer
of Bengal, would be present even when I sat alone inside the
cabin. My thoughts would go back to the primitive age, and
still the same picture would appear. I review the long history
of India with its rise and fall of civilisations, with its devasta-
ting invasions and internecine wars, and yet I can see no change
in the picture of the villages that I have just seen. I begin to
wonder what it is that has carried this life unbroken and un-
-affected through the centuries of a chequered political history
characterized by kaleidoscopic changes. Is there a hidden
-strength, a principle of social cohesion stronger than that which
knits the chemical atoms together, an elemental force of which

in

146

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

we are still unaware, that has kept the life on the land un-
changed through the ages ? Or is it just its amorphous character,
lack of all organisation, its entirely negative aspect that has
given it an enormous pliability to adjust itself to all conditions ?

In such a confused state of mind I disembark at a village and
meet a group of elderly people. I am eager to question them,
to find an answer to the problem which is worrying me. Sitting
on a primitive cane chair in the low-roofed verandah of a
cottage, with my hosts squatting on a mat in front of me, most
of them wearing only a loin-cloth and passing the hookah made
of coconut-shell to one another, I imagine myself transported
to the Middle Ages, holding a Panchayat over some knotty social
problem concerning the village.

An old man with flowing white beard gets up and says :
‘Babuji, what is the use of all this talk ? I don’t think our young
men will do anything much with all the rubbishy reforms they
glibly expound to us. Give us a Lenin and everything will be
changed.’

The spell was broken. I got up and hurried back to my boat.

Father As l Knew Him

It would appear presumptuous on my part to attempt an assess-
ment of my father’s genius about which so much has already
been written and I dare say more will be written. Father him-
self has given us his reminiscences and unburdened himself to
many friends in his numerous letters. It will be noticed, how-
ever, that his reminiscences are not so much a chronicle of
events as the story of an inner unfoldment. It is not easy to
understand a man of genius. The bare facts of life are a poor
commentary on the almost imperceptible working of a most
sensitive mind. An ordinary mind functions within the narrow
limits of work-a-day existence. A genius, on the other hand,
transcends the limits of mundane facts. He lives in a world which
is not always governed by physical laws. This is perhaps true of
all creative artists, and it is particularly true of my father. He
had so many facets to his genius ; he combined in himself the
minds of a poet, a scientist, a philosopher and a seer. In spite
of all attempts to understand a genius of this type, the perso-
nality of the man remains elusive, and beyond the yardstick of
any measurement.

Intensely human as he was. Father’s was yet a most complex
character. By nature extremely shy and sensitive, there was no
knowing how he would react to men and things. He was ex-
tremely capricious in his moods. At times he would throw off
all reserve and entertain friends — mostly young admirers — with
brilliant sallies of wit and humour ; at others he would withdraw
completely within himself, making it impossible for others to
fathom his thoughts. In his happiest moods, he could mix with
children as though he were one of them. I have never known

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a more loving nature, and yet in all my experience I have never
come across another man who inspired such a sense of awe and
reverence.

His ever-changing moods were a constant strain on his closest
associates. It has occurred to me that very often Father did not
want to admit even to himself his innermost feelings and con-
victions. It was therefore difficult even for those who were near-
est to him, to know the reasons which made him act in a parti-
cular way. The delicacy of his own feelings, especially with re-
gard to personal matters, and his extreme solicitude for the feel-
ings of others, often led him to adopt devious means of hiding
his real intentions. On many occasions my wife and I have felt
amused when he tried these on us.

My grandfather loved his youngest son and was delighted to
discover unusual talent in him while still a boy. Probably for
this reason he was very generous to him. Father was given the
most convenient and comfortable rooms in the family house,
and when even this did not satisfy him, grandfather helped him
to build a separate house for himself. This house came to be
known as the Lai Bari , because of its red colour. Father always
liked to change his surroundings. He easily got tired of living
in the same room or the same house for long. Santiniketan can
boast of more than a score of houses enriched by their associa-
tion with Father. He, therefore, felt very happy to receive this
assistance from Maharshi, and started to build the house. My
cousin Nitindra, who had some previous experience in the cons-
truction of houses, undertook the work. Father suggested that
the house should consist of two large upper and lower halls
only, so that he would be free to alter the interior arrangements
whenever he chose by means of movable partitions. The house
was built according to this plan, and then when we wanted to
move into it, we discovered that although there were the two big
halls as desired by father — one on each floor, there was no
staircase to connect them !

Although my grandfather had handed over the management
of the estates to father, he himself controlled the expenditure.
He was a strict disciplinarian. On the second of every month
the accounts had to be brought and read out to him. He would
remember every figure, and ask awkward questions whilst the
report was being read. Father used to be afraid of this day of

FATHER AS I KNEW HIM 149

trial, like a school-boy going up for his examination. We children
would wonder why our father was so afraid of his father.

Maharshi was once pleasantly surprised to hear that my father
had written, not the usual kind of poems young men write, but
a book of devotional songs. He sent for him one day and asked
him to read out all the poems to him. For hours Maharshi lis-
tened with rapt attention while Father recited the poems, and
then when he began to sing, tears silently rolled down his cheeks.
As soon as Father had finished, Maharshi gave him the where-
withal to publish the poems. It is said that he told Father, ‘I
wish I were a king to reward you adequately. But being what I
am. I can only give you so much.’ The book was published as
Naivedya. The translations of many of the poems contained in
Naivedya have been included in the English Gitanjali.

Father never treated any of his children harshly, nor did he,
on the other hand, lavish sentimental affection upon them. I do
not remember any occasion when Father subjected any of us to
physical punishment. Temperamentally it was impossible for him
to use violence. During all the years of my boyhood and youth,
only thrice have I seen him get really angry with me. As a
child I did not like bathing with its inevitable rubbing and scrub-
bing as though the body was something meant to be maltreated
regularly every day. One day my mother, having altogether fail-
ed to make me submit to this ordeal, appealed to Father. He
took hold of me, placed me on the top of an almirah, and left
me there without any scolding — not even a single harsh word.
Mother had no more trouble with me at bath-time.

The next occasion was at Shelidah. It was the last day of the
Durga Puja. I had been told that they had a regatta on this day
on the opposite bank of the Padma at Pabna. Hundreds of river-
craft gathered at the mouth of that very charming little river
Ichamati, brightly lit with thousands of oil lamps. But what
tempted me most was the boat-race that followed. A kind of fish-
ing-boat — very narrow and long, with most graceful lines —
would be stripped bare and manned by a score or more of oars-
men or scullers, and these would compete in the race. Having
lived on the banks of the mighty Padma and being the proud
professor of a dinghy purchased by saving every pie of the
monthly allowance of Rs. 5/- given by mother for pocket ex-
penses, I considered myself an ‘old salt* already, and, as such.

150

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

how could I miss this opportunity ? I cajoled the manager into
rigging out the larger of the two pinnaces we had on the river
and getting ready for the voyage. A voyage it would have to be
and a daring one too, because at this time of the year with the
river swollen by the rains — a swirling sea of water seven miles
wide — it was no easy matter to go across. Neither did we anti-
cipate what an adventure lay before us. Permission was easily
obtained from Father : he never refused me such requests how-
ever foolhardly the enterprise might be. Only he saw to it that
we were properly equipped. We started early in the morning, and
at the first stroke of the oars the boatmen as usual invoked
the blessings of the water-god.

So swift was the current that it took us the whole day to
cross over to Pabna. We could already see the illuminations
from a distance when the manager and my uncle began to
fidget and suggested that we should turn back, as my father
would expect us to return before dinner-time. But their admo-
nitions fell upon deaf ears, and I went back to my post at the
rudder. When we reached the place, they were all ready for the
race. A hundred or more boats strung out in a long double row
made the start, with a send-off chorus of hearty shouting. The
Oxford-Cambridge boat race is a tame affair compared to this.
T shall never forget the sight of these finely-built boats silhouet-
ted against the soft glow of the sunset, shaped like the thin
blade of a rapier and moving out at an incredible speed. T was
very fortunate in being able to witness this relic of old Bengal.
Such a regatta never again took place at Pabna. This interest-
ing sport has disappeared altogether from Bengal.

Clouds gathered while we were intent on the festival which
ended with the immersion of numerous decorated images of the
goddess. The boat turned towards the Shelidah bank in inky
darkness, and very soon we lost our bearings. The armed escorts,
who had accompanied us according to the custom of those days,
fired volleys at intervals, and then listened in the hope of attract-
ing return volleys from the ghat at Shelidah, which would help
us to get back our sense of direction. This signalling proved
successful. At about two o’clock in the morning we first heard
some firing and directed the boat towards the sound. When at
last we landed, I saw Father standing there at the ghat waiting
for us, and one glance at the stem look on his face, faintly lit

FATHER AS I KNEW HTM 151

by the light of a hurricane-lantern, was enough to make us
quake with fear. He hurried away without meeting me and did
not so much as utter a word of reproach or anger during the
days that followed. His silence on such occasions was more
terrifying than a thrashing — as many others besides myself will
testify.

Some years later at Santiniketan, I was responsible for getting
together a group of young teachers to go for a picnic to Surul.
This was long before the Rural Reconstruction Institute came
to be established at Sriniketan. We camped in the dilapidated
Barakuthi, which had been built in the days of the East India
Company. It was formerly the residence of the indigo planter,
John Cheap. We made merry till the early hours of morning.
When we returned to Santiniketan, none of the teachers were
prepared to take their classes that forenoon, and yet no one
dared approach Father for leave. Since it was at my instance
that the discipline of the Asrama had been broken, I went up to
him with a contrite heart and as brave a face as I could muster.
Father only asked, ‘Did you enjoy yourselves V All the expla-
nations I had thought of so carefully, were blotted out instantly
on hearing the tone of his voice. A hasty retreat and no expla-
nations. Never again did I try to do anything consciously that
would displease Father.

Recognition of his genius as a poet and a writer came to
Father after he had reached a mature age — but he was much
sought after and became a popular social figure while he was
still quite young. His extremely handsome appearance coupled
with a remarkable voice, probably partly accounted for his
popularity. But he had to pay dearly for it. Once he was deliver-
ing a lecture at a public meeting presided over by Bankim
Chandra Chatter ji, the novelist. The hall was crowded and the
lecture was long, and Father had to strain his voice. After he
had finished, the audience started clamouring for a song. Father
felt he could not do it after having lectured for an hour and a
half. But when Bankim Babu also joined in the request, he
could not very well refuse. He sang as only he could sing,
filling the hall with his powerful but melodious voice. But he
had overstrained himself, and his vocal chord became dama-
ged. He had to go to Simla for a change and rest, but his voice
was never the same again.

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ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Father liked to dress well. In his youth he always wore the
dhoti with a silk kurta and silk chaddar in public. He looked
very handsome in his flowing Bengali dress, and people would
admire the colour of the kurta or the way he wore the chaddar ,
and try to imitate him. At other times, especially when travel-
ling, he liked to wear trousers with a buttoned-up long coat
or achkan and a small pugree. This pleated turban, the invention
of my uncle Jyotirindra, came to be known as the Pirali Pugree i
Afterwards, at a much later age, he discarded the short achkan
and took to the long flowing djibbah , or often a pair of them,
worn with a soft cap. He was not afraid of colours and his
favourite colour was fawn with a tinge of orange. Most people
who have seen him at his advanced age, will associate him with
this sober but pleasant colour.

I would like to refer to one interesting thing in this connec-
tion. Father and Gandhiji were great friends. Yet, outwardly
no two people could be more unlike each other. Gandhiji in
his loin-cloth and Father in his colourful flowing robes, presented
a strange contrast. This could not have failed to attract public
notice, and I have heard people make uncharitable remarks
about Father’s extravagant tastes. It may, however, be noted
that Father’s clothes were not necessarily made of expensive
material. He had the peculiar knack of making the simplest
thing look beautiful, and the most expensive thing look simple.
Gandhiji’s loin-cloth was symbolic of the naked millions. It
certainly had its significance. But Father’s artistic garb was not
without its significance also. Gandhiji’s way of life, whether he
willed it or not, encouraged a kind of austerity in our national
life. Austerity as such had little or no appeal for Father. In a
land of poverty where life was nothing but a story of systematic
deprivation, austerity was not the ideal to be held up before
the people. On the contrary, our people needed to be encouraged
to taste the good things of life. Unfortunately, however, by a
curious confusion of ideas, shabbiness in dress and slovenliness
in hanits were coming to be regarded as social virtues. This
naturally shocked Father’s artistic sensibilities.

I think few writers have had to face such severe and unfair
criticism as Father, during the greater part of his life. Hardly
any of these were literary criticisms — they were acrimonious
and sometimes even scurrilous. One obvious reason for the per-

FATHER AS I KNEW HJM

153

sistence of such vituperations appearing regularly in a section of
the Bengali press, was that the editors had early discovered that
slandering Father paid handsomely. There was, however, a more
subtle reason behind this. A considerable part of the public
never felt that Rabindranath really belonged to them. He was
born in an aristocratic family, he wrote in a style and language
which was too individual and had nothing in common with his
predecessors or contemporary writers ; moreover he belonged to
the Brahmo Samaj, a non-conformist movement to reform Hindu
orthodoxy and hence regarded as a menace to society. It is per-
haps for these reasons that, besides the hack writers, even literary
coteries presided over by such well-known men as Dwijendralal
Roy and Chittaranjan Das sought to undermine the influence
of Father over the youth of the country. I cannot say that
Father was indifferent to the campaign carried on against him.
It deeply pained him to find that people whom he liked and
whom he had befriended in their early careers, turned out to be
his bitterest critics. But never did he reply to the attacks made
on him, except once in a poem addressed to the detractor, Nindu -
ker prati , and that too was in a lofty strain with not one word
of reproach.

All his life he had felt lonely, an intellectual loneliness which
is the common experience of a genius of his order. Undoubt-
edly he had many friends — but they were young admirers, who
could not give him the companionship that he craved for. But
it did bring considerable cheer to his otherwise lonely life to
feel the warmth of their devotion and love for him. Prominent
amongst these adherents were Satyendranath Datta, Charu-
chandra Bandyopadhyay, Manilal Ganguly, Hemendrakumar
Roy, Dhirendranath Datta, Sourindramohan Mukherji, Premankur
Atorthi, Narendra Deb, Amal Home, Karunanidhan Bandyo-
padhyay, Prabhatkumar Mukherji, Jatindramohan and Dwijendra
narayan Bagchi. This young group of poets and writers used
regularly to meet in a house at Sukea Street, where Manilal
Ganguly had his office. Ganguly was the manager of the Kantik
Press and the publisher-editor of the magazine Bharati . They
were staunch admirers of everything that concerned Father and
took up such a militant attitude whenever they considered his
‘honour’ in need of being defended, that they came to be called
‘Rabindriks\

154

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

Very few knew or realized the struggle which Father had to
carry on his educational experiment at Santiniketan. When the
school was established, he had difficulty in getting pupils and
those that came were mostly of the difficult type. People looked
down upon the institution and ridiculed Father’s attempt to in-
troduce new ideas in education. It took years before people be-
gan to recognize the Santiniketan school as anything else but a
reformatory. To this was added the suspicion of the British
Government, and the secret circulars that were issued to warm
officials from sending their children to Santiniketan. Considered
from a worldly point of view, it was indeed foolhardy of Father
to have launched into this misadventure, at a time when he
hardly had enough to support himself and his family and was
actually in debt on account of the failure of the Kushtia busi-
ness. He had to dispose of everything he possessed including
the ornaments belonging to my mother, in order to start the
school. Among other things he had to sell his gold watch and
chain — a wedding gift — to a friend. It was a familiar object to
us when we were children. We liked to flick open the lid to look
at the monogram engraved on the inside. It was therefore a very
pleasant surprise to me when the lady who had purchased it
from Father many years ago, gave this watch and chain as her
wedding present to me in 1910. It has remained a precious heir-
loom with me ever since.

Financial difficulties increased with the years, as the school
expanded. Father had to go to Sir Taraknath Palit, father of
his friend Loken Palit, to borrow money. This debt he was un-
able to repay during Sir Tarak’s lifetime. Among other assets, the
amount Father owed him was tranferred to the University of
Calcutta when Sir Tarak died leaving all his property to the
University. This debt was a constant source of worry to Father.
Whilst Sarasvati, the goddess of learning, had showered all her
favours on him, Lakshmi, the goddess of fortune, evidently
ignored him. Misfortune and bad luck persistently dogged
his steps. The lecture-tour in the U.S.A. in 1916-17 was a pheno-
menal success. It brought enormous returns. Father did not
spare himself, because he felt that at last he would be able
not only to pay off all his outstanding debts but would no longer
be obliged to beg for the funds necessary to develop Santiniketan
according to his desire. But his ill-luck intervened.- The Bureau

FATHER AS I KNEW H^M

155

that was handling his lecture-tour very conveniently went bank-
rupt towards the end of the tour, and instead of the several
lakhs due, all that Willie Pearson, who was with Father on that
tour, could with difficulty realize were a few thousand rupees,
just sufficient to pay off Father’s debt to the University.

The sale of Father’s books in the continental countries of
Europe should have brought him a fortune. But his fame rea-
ched its height immediately before the first World War, and this
effectively prevented the realization of royalties.

Father had to go constantly on begging missions on behalf
of his institution. I was with him in New York in 1920 when an
organized effort was made to collect funds in America.

With the help of Mrs. Willard Straight and Mr. Morgen-
theau (senior), quite a group of Wall Street millionaires had been
induced to open the subscription list with handsome donations.
Morgentheau, besides his official position — he had been the U.S.
Ambassador to Turkey — was himself a Wall Street financier. To
bring matters to a head, he gave a banquet at his house to
which about a hundred of his millionaire friends were invited.
We were assured that Father would get a few million dollars
before he left the shores of America. But not even a few thou-
sands came to him.

Father returned to India bitterly disappointed. The weeks
spent in New York in a hotel amidst the din and bustle of that
noisy city, with the sole object of raising funds, was positively
repugnant to him. His sensitive nature rebelled against it. In
his letters to Charlie Andrews written during this period, he
poured out the anguish of his soul. It was a bitter trial for me
also. I felt I was responsible for encouraging Father to go
through this humiliating and painful experience. We afterwards
came to know that Wall Street closed its purse-strings at the
last moment because of a tip sent through Morgan that financial
help to a private institution in India would not be looked upon
with favour by the British Government.

Although compelled to seek help for his institution, the idea
of begging money from monied men, just the people who were
least capable of appreciating him and his work at Santiniketan,
was painful to him. He would shrivel up when it actually came
to the point where he would be expected to make the request.
Once a friend of ours, a businessman of Bombay, had arranged

156

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

that Father should meet the Gaekwad of Baroda and ask him
for an endowment worthy of him. The friend told me that ho
had found the Prince, who was living at Lausanne, in a very
sympathetic mood and that he had already prepared the ground.
Father would only have to invite him to lunch and casually
mention the matter. He was sure to make a donation sufficiently
handsome to put the institution on a sound footing once for all
and Father would not have to undertake any more begging
tours. I went over to Lausanne and invited the Maharajah to
lunch with Father at our hotel in Geneva. At the lunch-table
a very interesting conversation was started and carried on from
one topic to another, and so absorbed were they that neither
my friend nor myself could find an opening to turn it in the
direction we wanted. At last Father noticed the look of alarm
in our faces and abruptly told the Maharajah of his mission, and
wound up his appeal for funds with the advice that if the Maha-
rajah did decide to give any money to him, he should do it as
though he were throwing it into the water. On hearing this my
friend gave me a hard kick under the table. The Maharajah kept
silent and left without making any promise.

It was left to Mahatmaji to realize the tragedy of circums-
tances that made a poet and a man like Father undertake ardu-
ous tours to collect funds for the Visva-Bharati. Once when
Mahatmaji met him in Delhi in 1936, and found that Father
was trying to raise money through performances of his dance-
drama Chitrangada by the students of Santiniketan, he asked us
what was the amount of deficit which was worrying Father. Be-
fore Father left, Mahatmaji gave him a cheque for the amount
which he had raised in the meantime and made Father promise
that he would never again go out on such a mission.

The money thus secured for us by Mahatmaji came like a
windfall, and there was great jubilation amongst those who
formed the party. Father, however, was not jubilant ; on the
contrary, he looked somewhat depressed. It did not take me
long to guess his feelings. The promise obtained from him by
Gandhiji was too heavy a price to pay for the immediate finan-
cial relief. While these arduous journeys meant a lot of physical
strain for him, one could easily see that he inwardly enjoyed
being with the troupe and witnessing his creation take form in
melody and colour and movement. To promise not to accom-

FATHER AS I KNEW HJM 10/

pany these parties would deprive him of one of the greatest joys
of his life.

Music and dramatic performances had always formed an
essential part of his educational endeavour. By education he
meant the fullest self-expression and the development of aesthe-
tic sensibilities. His educational experiment was virtually a search
for a fuller way of life. It was the success of this experiment
that lent meaning and significance to what is known as Santini-
ketan education. Whilst Santiniketan functioned in its rural
retreat away from towns and cities, her message travelled far
and wide through her music, her painting, her dance-recitals and
dramatic performances. I do not think I presume too much
when I say that Satiniketan has made no small contribution to
the moulding of public taste in Bengal, and for that matter
throughout the rest of India.

Father’s essentially optimistic and cheerful temperament com-
bined with a sense of humour, helped him to overcome the
vicissitudes that pursued him relentlessly throughout his life.
Financial worries were the least part of them. The death of my
mother, when he was only forty-one and in the prime of his
creative faculties, came as the first blow. It left him with five
children to look after. Two of my sisters were married, but my
younger brother was only a child of eight at the time.

Father’s worries at this period of his life were more than
enough for any man. Besides looking after his own children,
there were a hundred others at Santiniketan for whose upbring-
ing he had undertaken the responsibility. And yet he was not to
be spared other greater trials. One after the other my grand-
father, my two married sisters and my young brother died. My
two cousins Balendra and Nitindra, whom father loved like his
own sons, died in the prime of their youth. The successive deaths
of the young poet, Satish Roy, and of Mohitchandra Sen robbed
him of two of his ablest supporters in his work for the Santi-
niketan School. During all these years of anguish and suffering.
Father himself was in constant pain, due to a chronic ailment.
The fortitude with which he bore the loss of all those whom
he loved most was remarkable. But what was even more remark-
able was that these bereavements never made him lose his poise
of mind, nor did his creative faculties cease to function or fail
for a single moment. On the contrary, his loss and sorrow

158

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

seemed to have had an enriching influence of their own and
gave greater depth and significance to his writings.

Father had an unusual capacity for work. He was gifted with
a remarkably strong constitution. One of my uncles had seen to
it that Father should improve and develop this natural gift by
physical exercises during his boyhood. Besides other exercises,
a professional gave him lessons in wrestling. As a result. Father
looked a picture of robust health in his youth. His handsome
appearance never failed to attract admiration wherever he went.
His soft beard, kept trimmed during his youthful days, and long
curls of hair added to the charm of his appearance. At a later
age, when he had let the beard grow and wore the flowing
dress — a double djibha — how often I have overheard people in
the West exclaiming in hushed voices, ‘How like our Prophet ! ’

Even in later years I never saw him suffer from any of the
common ailments, except from the chronic trouble he had in-
herited. He was able to get rid of this in 1912 by an operation,
after which he enjoyed perfect health for many years until old
age. Throughout his life he worked all hours of the day. His
day began at about 4 a.m., while it was still dark. Before setting
down to work at his writing desk, he used to sit in meditation
for half an hour or more every morning. At breakfast he liked
company. His hour for this meal was so unusually early that
very often the people whom he expected could not turn up. He
used to send for them and wait till they came. This was the
time when he was in his best form — telling humorous stories,
cracking jokes and carrying on brilliant conversation with the
people who gathered at the table.

It is surprising how he could compose poems and songs,
write novels and essays — very often all at the same time — and
yet receive so many callers. He never liked any visitor, whatever
his mission, to be kept waiting. His secretaries had a hard time
whenever they tried to shield him from unnecessary intrusion.
They would be rebuked by Father for their overzealousness.
Father did not take any rest during the day. Even during the
hottest days of summer, he would sit at his desk and work with
the doors and windows wide open, absolutely indifferent to the
hot blasts blowing around him. Most of his reading was done
at night. There was plenty of time for this, as he did not go
to bed till quite late. Four to five hours of sleep was all that he

FATHER AS I KNEW HIM

159

needed. That he could do so much writing over and above his
other work and the time given to visitors, was due to the ex-
traordinary power of concentration he possessed. Nothing seem-
ed to disturb his chain of thoughts. He could leave a poem un-
finished, talk to someone for an hour, and then immediately go
back and finish it, as though there had been no interruption at
all. Neither did any change of surroundings matter. The places
and dates given in some of his books of poems show how he
was able to compose the poems even under impossible condi-
tions. The only form of rest that he allowed himself when he
was tired, was to compose songs and set them to music. Latterly,
after he had taken to painting, that also became a favourite
form of recreation.

My great-grandfather. Prince Dwarkanath Tagore, when he
visited England in 1844, had taken with him his nephew, Nabin

Babu, who acted as a sort of secretary. In one of the letters

Nabin Babu wrote home, we find him complaining about his
discomfiture in managing his master’s affairs in England, be-
cause, as he put it, ‘Babu often changes his mind’. This obser-
vation of Nabin’s became a household word in our family, be-

cause it applied with even greater aptness to the grandson of
the Prince. Even Father would sometimes quote it himself to
my wife to justify some sudden change in his plans. We, of
course, had got used to this changeable character of his mind,
but quite often it led to much misunderstanding and was some-
times followed by disastrous results. Father’s receptive and
imaginative mind would never accept anything as final. On the
contrary, no sooner was anything decided than his mind began
to revolt against it, and he would not be content until he ha^
found an excuse to alter the decision. Status quo had no mean-
ing for him. This applied not only to his daily life, his wanting
always to change his habitation, his food, his dress and such-
like things, but to his creative activities as well. He was essen-
tially a revolutionary — only his mission was not to destroy but
to build. Whenever his mind revolted against current conven-
tions, whether in literature, in religious beliefs, in social customs,
in education or in politics, he would fearlessly criticize and ex-
pose what he considered wrong or unjust. At the same time he
had constructive ideas to offer as an acceptable alternative and
was ready to carry them out himself if no one else dared to do

ON THE EDGES OF TIME

so. This spirit of revolt against accepted principles and practice,
coupled with the desire to experiment with new ideas, persisted
till the last day of his life.

What struck me most was the amazing vitality of his mind.
Never for a day did he cease to grow. Some of his boldest
experiments in literary technique were made late in life, when
one is loth to break new ground. He discarded rhymes and
turned to vers libre when he was about seventy. Some of his
stories written about the same time came perilously near to the
vexed problem of sex and probably shocked the sensibilities of
orthodox readers. His last book of poems, dictated a few days
before his death to those who nursed him during his last illness,
bore the same mark of experimentation in form and technique.
The younger writers had much ado to keep pace with him, and
not unoften he beat them at their own game.

No biography, however laboriously written, could ever give
an adequate picture of such a complex personality as his. The
subtle nuances of a life so delicately lived could only be ex-
pressed by a pen as delicate as his own. As a matter of fact,
his own writings constitute the best commentary on his life.
These reveal him as nothing else does. ‘You cannot find the
poet in his biography,’ he says in one of his poems. Yes, the
poet is to be found in his poems. His poems are his best life-
story and may I conclude by saying that his greatest poem is the
life he has lived.

The Tagore Family Tree
Index

11

I -Dwipendranath (1862-1922) — Dinendranath

— Dwijendranath — Nitindranath 0867-1902) (1882-1935)

(1840-1926) •— Sudhindranath 0869-1929)

— Satyendranath j -Surendranath 0872-1940)

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lanmdranai

INDEX

A Midsummer Night's Dream
51-52

Abanindranath 6, 13, 15, 76, 77,
78, 81, 89, 90, 103
Abhi 12, 83

Achalayatan 84, 86, 87, 88
Adelphi Terrace 106
Adi-Kutir 44
Adi Brahmo Samaj 44
Agha Khan 112
Agra 39

Alakananda, River 40
Allahabad 19

All-India Theistic Society 41
Almora 50, 53, 55
Alwar, Maharaja of 112, 115
Amaladidi 12, 26, 27
America 55, 68, 71, 74, 76, 107,
116, 117, 121, 155
Am iel’s Journal 21
Amulya Maharaj (Swami Sankara-
nanda) 39

Anderson, Prof. 1 16
Andrews, C. F. 62, 63, 87, 101,
155

Animananda Swami (See Rewa-
chand)

Anusilan Samiti 60

Arai, Kampo 80

Art Movement in Bengal 76

Ary a Samaj 41

Ashamukul 90

Asia 66, 67

Asvaghosha 54

Atorthi, Premankur 153

Atrai, River 144, 145

Auteuil 128

Bach 120
Badrinath 40

Bagchi, Dwijendranarayan 153
Bagchi, Jatindramohan 153
Baghbazar 62
Baikunther Khata 15
Bairagya-Sadhan 89
Balak 10

Balendranath Tagore (Baludada)
1, 10, 11, 14, 16, 30, 41, 157
Ballygunge 5, 7

Balmiki Pratibhd 82, 83, 93, 97
Banaras 19, 33, 42, 51
Banara9 Ghat 101
Bandyopadhyay, Charuchandra
153

Bandyopadhyay, Karunanidhan 153
Banerjea, Sir Surendranath 17, 71,
72

Banerjee, Gooroodas 20
Banerji, Haricharan (Hari-babu)
22, 45

Banerji, Kalicharan 45

Banerji, Monoranjan 45

Bangadarshan 82

Bankura 88

Barsha-Shesh 49

Barakuthi 151

Baroda, Gaekwad of 156

Basu, Bhupendranath 115

Bavaria 132

Beadon Street 18

Beggar's Opera , The 121, 122

Bela 20, 21, 52, 55

Belur Math 38

Bengal 5, 25, 37, 59, 60, 79, 145,
150, 157

Bengal Home Industries Associa-
tion 79

Bengal Provincial Conference 16,
17

Bengalee, The 71

Benfey, Prof. & Mrs. Meyer 134

Bergen 121

Bergson, Henri 124, 126
Berkeley 68
Berlin 132

Besant, Mrs. Annie 72, 91

Bethune College 83

Bharati 11, 25, 27, 153

Bhartrihari 22, 51

Bhairaber Boli 83

Bhattacharya, Vidbusekhara 51, 54

Bhuvandanga 49

Bihar 5, 19, 94

Bini Paisar Bhoj 15

Binyon, Laurence 1 1 5

Bir Chandra Manikya 83

Birjitalao 83

Bisarjart 83, 84

11A

166

INDEX

Bisi, Pramatha 85
Bismarck 72, 73
Bjornson 131
Blount, N. 78
Bogra 29
Bojer 131
Bomanji, Mr. 120
Bombay 99, 120
Bonnerjee, W. C. 8, 17
Bones, Sir Muirhead 116
Bose, Anandamohan 17
Bose, Jagadishchandra 16, 23, 24,
25, 59, 98
Bose, Jatin 60
Bose, Nandalal 78, 80, 81
Bose, Pashupati 62
Bourdette, Miss 74
Bouthakuranir Hat 86
Brah ma~ V id yal ay a 4 3
Brahma Dharma 21, 42, 43
Brahmo Samaj 6, 13, 41, 50, 153
Bruhmacharya Asrama 38, 43, 47,
48, 84, 86, 87, 125, 151
Brazil 114

Brimont, Comtesse de 126
Brooke, Stopford 100
Browning, Robert 48
Buddha 66
Buddha-Charit 54
Buenos Aires 129
Burke 71

Calcutta University 60, 61, 124,
154

Cambridge 105
Cap Martin 110, 133
Carmichael, Lord 78, 79
Caxton Hall 115
Cecil, Lord Robert 115
Cezanne 127

Chakravarty, Ajit Kumar 45, 58,
85, 89, 98

Chakravarty, Haimanti 87
Chamru 75
Chandpal Ghat 47
Chapman 102

Chatterjee, Bankim Chandra 82,
151

Chatterji, Nayan 84, 85
Chatterji, Sarat Chandra 81
Chatterji, Suniti 114

Chatterji. Tapan Mohan 85
Chaudhuri, Sir Ashutosh 8, 97
Chaudhuri, Nikhil 119
Chaudhuri, Pramatha 16, 81
Chaudhurani, Indira Devi 54
Cheap, John 151
Chicago 68, 108, 109
China 85
Chinna-Patra 54
Chirakumar Sabha 27
C Ultra 143
Chitrangada 156
Chitpur Road 18
Choker Bali 56
Chota Akshoy Babu 15. 16
Chotonagpur 92

Choudhury, Akshoy Kumar 16, 60
Clement’s Inn 71
Clemenceau 110
Christie's 101

Congress Session 1896 18
Contemporary Review 118
Coomara, Miss Alice 118
Coomaraswamy, Ananda K. 79.
98, 104

Cosmopolitan Club 69, 70
Cornwallis Street 83
Corda Fraters 70
Cotton, H. E. A. 71
Cotton, Sir Henry 71
Courtney, Lady 118
Creative Unity 105
Crescent Moon, The 107 fn
Croce, Benedetto 137
Currimbhoy, Sir 112
Curzon, Lord 61
Cuttack 29

D’Aranyi, Mile 119
Dacca 19, 33

Dak Ghar (Post Office , The ) 16,
84, 90, 110, 143
Daksha 2
Dante 48

Danube, River 140
Darjeeling 79
Darmstadt 130, 131
Das, Chittaranjan 10, 12, 16, 153
Das Gupta, Kedarnath 72, 112
Datta, Dhirendranath 153
Datta, Satyendranath 153

INDEX

10 /

Davis, Dr. Walford 107
Deb, Narendra 153
Denmark 103, 117
Deuskar, Sakharam Ganesh 60
Dev Barman, Somendra 108
Deval, N. K. 80

Devendranath Tagore, Maharshi
5, 6, 13, 29, 33, 41, 42, 43, 55,
148, 149

Dey, Mukul 80, 119
Dey, Sailen 78
Dhammapada 21
Dhrupad 15
Dickinson, Lowes 116
Dinendranath 38, 47, 49, 58, 87,
89, 90, 97

Dwarkanath Tagore, Prince 3, 4,
9, 30, 33, 159

Dwarkanath Tagore Lane 5
Dwijendranath 6, 7, 11, 27
Dyer 114

Dyson, Sir Frank 113
Dube, Mr. & Mrs. 115

Easl India Company 2, 3, 4, 5,
151

Eden Gardens 18
Eeden, Dr. Frederick Van 130
Ecghen, Mrs. Van 135
Einstein 113

Elmhirst, Leonard K. 70, 87, 136,
137

England 5, 23, 25, 99, 100, 101,
104, 109, 159

Eucken, Dr. Rudolph 108
Europe 90, 97, 98, 99, 109, 110,
112, 129, 134

Fachiri, Mr. 119
Faridpur 29, 37
Faust 121
Finot, Prof. 125
Formichi, Prof. Carlo 136, 137
Fort William 5
Fouchet, Prof. 125
France 109, 110, 111, 124, 126,
130

Gaganendranath 6, 15, 60, 72, 74,
76, 77, 78, 79, 81
Galpaguchchha 15, 25, 31

Galpa-Salpa 85

Gandhi, Mahatma 63, 91, 152

Ganges, River 33, 141

Gangoly, O. C. 78

Gangulee, Nagendranath 54, 75

Ganguly, Manilal 153

Ganguly, Suren 78

Gayatri mantram 42

Gardener , The 100, 125

Gamier, M. 122

Gauguin 127

Geneva 156

Germany 110, 134, 135

Ghose, Kalimohan 101, 104, 105

Ghose, Lalmohan 8, 17

Ghose, Manmohan 8

Ghose, Rashbehari 8, 17

Gide, Andre 128

Giridih 59, 94

Gitanjali 99, 100, 101, 106, 107,
109, 110, 117, 125, 128, 149
Goethe 48

Goettingen, University of 72, 73
Gokhale, G. K. 17
Golden Gate 68
Goloubew, M. 79, 125
Gooch, Editor Contemporary Re-
view 1 1 8

Gorai, River 19, 29, 30, 35, 37

Govindapur 2

Green Mansions 105

Guha Thakurta, Monoranjan 59

Guimet, Musee 125

Gupta, Bihari Lai 8

Gupta, Krishna Govinda 8

Ha-Cha-Ha 85
Hafiz 112

Haidar, Asit Kumar 78, 80, 81, 90

Hamburg 134

Hampstead Heath 101, 113

Hamsun, Knut 131, 132

Harvard 99, 108, 109

Havell, Mr. 103, 104

Haydn 120

Hazaribagh 53, 93

Hedin. Sven 131, 132

Heifetz 106

Hesse, Grand Duke of 130, 131
Himalayas 38

Hitendranath Tagore (Hit-da) 1

168

INDEX

Hitler, Adolf 132, 133

Hogman, Dal 137

Hogg Street 79

Holland 130, 134, 135

Home, Amal 153

Home and the World , The 143

Homer 102

Honolulu 67

Hooghly 33

Howrah 38

H uberman 141

Hudson, W. H. 100, 105

Ichamati, River 149
Illini 71

Illinois, University of 68, 71, 74,
75, 107

Indo-Aryan Languages 36
India 59, 69, 77, 78, 109, 114, 117,
125, 145, 155
India Society 101, 104
Indian National Congress 8, 91
Indian National Movement 72
Indian Society of Oriental Art 77,
78, 113
Indiana 69
Ingo-Banga Samaj 1
Ireland 117

Irish Theatre movements 86
Italy 110, 136, 138 139, 142

Jadavpur University 61
Jaipur 14

Japan 58, 65, 66, 123, 152
Jeejeebhoy, Sir J. 112
Jhalwar, Maharaja of 115
Jnanadanandini 7
Joachim 119
Jorasanko 2, 5, 18, 82
Jorasanko house 2, 28, 85
Jyotirindranath 56, 82

Kacha and Devayani 119
Kahn, Albert M. 110, 122, 123,
124, 125

Kala-Bhavana 81
Kalidas 48, 49, 51-
Kamadev 3
Kanauj 2
Kanchenjunga 79
Kant 6

Kantik Press 153

Kar, Surendranath 80, 81, 89

Karnaprayag 40

Karp616s, Andr6e and Suzanne
79, 124, 126, 127, 128, 136, 137
Katha-o-Kahini 20
Kathgodam 39
Keats 102
Kedarnath 39, 40
Kensington 102, 103, 104, 121
Keynes, Prof. 116
Keyserling, Count Hermann 78,
130, 131

Kham-Kheyali Sabha 14-16
Kheya 64
Khulna 2

Klinghoffer, Sisters 119

Krishnanagar 14

Kumaon hills 39

Kuru-Pandava 22

Kushtia 19. 23, 29, 30, 35, 154

Kuthibari 75, 98

Lagerlof, Selma 131, 132
‘Lalbari’ 79, 148
Lansdowne, Lady 82
Laurence 122
Lausanne 156

Lawrence, Colonel 101, 114
Lawrence, teacher 20, 26
Le Brun, Prof. 125
Lenin 146

Lesney, Dr. V. 133, 134
Levi, Prof. & Madame Sylvain
124, 125, 127
Liberal Party 71
Lodge, Sir Oliver 104
London 4, 72, 97, 99, 100, 101,
102, 103, 104, 106, 111, 114,
120 , 121

Lutyens, Sir Edward 104

MacDonald Ramsay 98
Maghotsava 13, 88
Mahabharata 21, 22, 46, 144
Mahalanobis, Prof. & Mrs. P. C
136, 138 fn
Mahendra Babu 39
Maitra, Akshoy Kumar 20, 25, 26
Maitra, Surendranath 50 fn
Majumdar, Kshitin 78

INDEX

169

Majumdar, Santosh 45, 58, 59, 64,
75, 84

Majumdar, Srish Chandra 45
Majumdar, Subodh Chandra 45
Malaviya, Pandit Madan Mohan
91

Malay 65

Malabar 39

Manasi 1 5

Mandakini, River 40

Mandir, (Santiniketan) 44

Manet 127

Marseilles 112

Masaryk, Dr. 133

Masefield 100

May dr Kheld 82, 83

Mazumdar, Akshoy 83

McCabe 9

Medea 115

Mehta, Pherozeshah 17
Mesopotamia 109
Meynell, Alice 101
Mexico 69
Milton 54

Minerva Theatre 60
Mira 52, 55
Mitter, T. P. 60
Modern Review, The 98
Monghyr 55
Montagu, Mr. 114, 115
Moody, Mrs. William Vaughan
108, 137

Moore, Thomas Sturge 107, 116
Morgan 155
Morgentheau, Mr. 155
Moscow Art Theatre 86
Mukherji, Prabhat Kumar 153
Mukherji, Satish Chandra 60
Mukherji, Sourindramohan 153
Mullick, Hem Chandra 60
Miinchen 132
Murray, Gilbert 115, 116
Murshidabad 79
Mussolini 136, 137, 139

Nadia 19, 29, 30, 37
Nagendranath 4
Naidu, Sarojini 118
Nainital 39
Naivedya 149
Nandini 136

National Council of Education 61
National Congress 58
National Liberal Club 71
National Movement of the Con-
gress 7

Natore, Jagadindra Maharaja of
15, 16, 26

Naturalist in La Plata, The 105

Natyaghar 85

Nauka Dubi 56

Nawanagar, Jam Saheb 112

Nevada Street 69

Nevinson, H. W. 71, 100, 101

New Delhi 103

New York 63, 74 fn, 109, 155

Newman, Cardinal 50

Newton 113

Nitindranath 13, 16, 148, 157
Nivedita, Sister 25, 38, 58, 59
Noailles, Comtesse de 110, 127
Nobel Prize 109, 120
Norway 121

Nouvelle Revue Francaise 126

Ocampo, Senora Vittoria 129
Okakura, Count Kakuzo 58, 66,
77, 78, 80

Oriental Art Society 78
Orissa 5, 29, 34
Owen, Susan H. Ill
Owen, Wilfred 110, 111
Oxford 8, 114

Pabna 19, 29, 37, 149, 150
Padma, Boat 33, 34, 37
Padma, River 19, 23, 24, 33 34,
36, 37, 75, 98, 149
Paddington 112
Pal, Bipin Chandra 59, 60
Palit, Loken 8, 100, 154
Palit, Sir Taraknath 8, 154
Panchanan 2
Panini 51

Pankhurst, Miss 106
Pareshnath Hill 92
Park Street 5, 6, 7, 83
Park Street House 1, 6
Pdribarik Khdta 1
Paris 4, 121, 122, 126, 127, 129,
130

Pathuriaghata 2

170

INDEX

Pavlova 78
Paush Mela 44

Pearson, W. W. 87, 112, 116, 117,
120 , 121 , 122
Persia 109
Peru 1 29

Phdlguni 84, 88, 89
Phatik 34, 36
Phelps, Myron 74
Philippines 69
Pirali (Pir-Ali) Brahmins 3
Plunkett, Sir Horace 117
Plymouth 112

Post Office , The see Dak-Char

Potisar 15, 35, 54, 144

Pound, Ezra 101, 105, 117

Prague 134. 135

Prarthana Samaj 41

Pratima Devi 74, 80

Prayaschitta 86

Punjab 39

Punyaha 36

Puri 43

Queen’s Hall 106

Rabindra-Sadana 129
Raja 84. 86, 87
Rdjd-o-Rdni 83, 84
Rajshahi 25, 29, 37
Rakhi-bandhan 61
Ramayana 21, 82
Ramkrishna Mission 39, 59
Rani 52, 53, 55
Ranjit Singhji (Ranji) 112
Ray,, Mrs. P. K. 83
Ray, Sukumar 103
Relief Committee 88
Reminiscences 57, 77
Renaissance Movement of Bengal
3

Renoir 127
Renwick 30

Research Department, Visva-
Bharati 54

Review of Reviews 71
Rewachand (Animananda Swami)
44, 45

Rhys, Ernest 101, 106, 115
Roberts, Charles 115
Robinson Crusoe 6

Rochester 108
Rodin 127

Roerich, Nicholas 114
RoIIand, Romain 128
Ronaldshay, Lord 78
Rothampstead 72

Rothenstein, William 78, 100, 101*
103, 104, 105, 112, 113, 114,
117, 119

Roy, Bankim 108
Roy, D. L. (Dwijendralal) 16, 23,
25, 153,

Roy, Dilip 117
Roy, flemendrakumar 153
Roy, Jagadananda 43, 46. 52, 85,
87

Roy, Rammohan 3. 4
Roy, Satish Chandra 45. 48, 49.
157

Roy, V. 59

Roy Chaudhuri. Pramathanath 16
Roza 3

Rudra, Sudhir 122
Russell, Bertrand 104, 105
Russell Square 104

Sabuj Pair a movement 81
Sadananda Swami 38
Sadhana 11, 20, 25, 31, 99, 108
Sakhi Samiti 83
Sakuntala 50
Scima-Veda 43

Samarendra 6, 15, 76, 77, 89
Samadhyayi, Brahmuvrata 42
Samindra (Sami) 52, 55
San Francisco 67
Sandhya 50
San git Samaj 83

Sankarananda Swami (Amulya
Maharaj) 39

Santiniketan 22, 34, 41, 42, 43,
44, 47, 50, 51, 52, 54, 58, 63.
65, 66, 75, 81, 84, 86, 88, 89,
92, 98, 99, 101, 108, 127, 133.
136, 144, 148. 151, 156, 157
[ Santiniketan ] Mandir 44
Santiniketan School 97
Santiniketan Trust 46
Sanyal, Bhupendranath 45
Sdradotsab 52, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88
Saraladidi 18, 27

INDEX

171

Satyendranath 1, 5, 7, 13, 17, 44,
83

Scandinavia 131
Scott, Sir Walter 6
Scotti, Duke 138
Seal, Brajendra Nath 79
Sen, Atul Prasad 16
Sen, Kshitimohan 85, 87, 112
Sen, Mohit Chandra 52, 53, 67,
157

Sen, Priyanath 16
Sen, Sachin 122
Sepoy Mutiny 4

Seymour, Dr. & Mrs. 69, 70, 94
Sahajadpur 35
Shakespeare 48, 49, 52, 54
Shaw, George Bernard 106
Shelidah 9, 15, 16, 19, 21, 23, 25,
26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 34, 35, 37,
41, 43, 54, 73, 74, 75, 86, 97,
98, 99, 149, 150
Sikshar Herpher 20
Silsmaria 141
Simla 151

Sinclair, May 101, 102, 103, 106

Sinha, Kaliprasanna 22

Sinha, Lord 8, 114

S mar an 53

Sonar Tori 15

Sophia 50

Sorbonne 125

Spectator 49

Sriniketan 63, 64, 151

St. John of the Cross 102

St. Moritz 141

Stead, W. T. 71

Stockholm 131

Straight, Mrs. Dorothy 70

Straight, Mrs. Willard 155

Sudhindra 10

Suffragatte Movement, The 106
Sukea Street 153
Sunday, Billy 70

Surendranath (Surendada) 21, 22,
30, 54, 58, 80
Surul 151

Swadeshi Movement, The 57, 58,
62, 63, 65
Sweden 131

Switzerland 128, 139, 141, 142

Tagore & Co. 30
Taikan 80
Tapsi 34
Tapati 83, 84

‘The Dark Night of the Soul’ 102
‘The Search after Truth’ 6
Thorndike, Sybil 115
Tibet 39

Tilak, Lokmanya 91

Timbres, Dr. & Mrs. Harry 87

Tippera, Maharaja of 25, 83

Tokyo 66

Tolstoy 6

Tovey, Prof. 119

Trevelyan, Charles 101

Trivedi, Ramendra Sundar 60

Trojan Woman 115

Tubbs, Miss 115

Underhill, Evelyn 100
Upadhyaya, Brahmabandhab 44,
50, 51

Vpanishads 21, 42, 142
Urbana 107, 108, 109
U.S.A. 65, 69, 70, 76, 99, 107,
108, 109, 154

Van Doren, Carl 71
Van Gogh 127
Vande Mataram 18
Varendra Anusandhan Samiti,
Museum 25
Vedanta 6

Vichitra Club 16, 80, 81, 88, 90
Vichitra Hall 90, 91
Victorian age 4
Victoria. Queen 4, 5, 130
Vidya-Bhavana 54
Vidyarnava, Pandit Shivadhan 41,
44

Virgil 48

Visva-Bharati Library 43, 44
Vivekananda, Swami 59

Wagner 135

Wall Street 155

Web of Indian Life, The 38

Webb, Mr. & Mrs. Sidney 118

Wells. H. G. 100

Wigmore Hall 118

INDEX

Wilson President 133

Winternitz Prof. 133, 134. 135

Woburn Place 104

Wolff, Kurt 132

Woodroffe, Justice 78

Woods, Prof, and Mrs. James 125

Yeats, William Butler 99, 100,
101, 102, 104, 105, 107
Y.M.C.A. 68
Yorkshire 103

Zetland, Marquess of see Ronald-
shay, Lord

The Author

Born in Calcutta on 27 Novem-
ber 1888, the author is the
Poet’s eldest son. He was one
of the first batch of five stu-
dents at Santiniketan in 1901.
Educated at Santiniketan and
also privately under the gui-
dance of his father and at the
University of Illinois, U.S.A.,
where he obtained his B.Sc.,
in Agriculture in 1909.
Married 1910. Accompanied
his father on the Gitanjali tour
to England and U.S.A. in
1912. Played a leading part
in the establishment of the
Vichitra Club in 1917. In
1921, after the inauguration of
Visva-Bharati, became General
Secretary of the Visva-Bharati
Society. Became the first Vice-
Chancellor of Visva-Bharati
when in 1951 it was incorpo-
rated as a Central University.
Retired in 1953 for reasons of
health. Author of several books
and is also a well known artist
and craftsman. Breathed his
last on 3 June, 1961, the year,
of the birth centenary of the
Poet.